Rarely Pure and Never Simple
by ShinySherlock
Summary: Molly is stuck in a tug-of-war between loyalty and guilt after helping Sherlock fake his death. Seeing John's suffering convinces her to read him in, but it's not easy when they're all being watched. Lots of Molly and lots of John, and a big ending with Sherlock. Angst, confused romance, hurt/comfort, a little fluff. Johnlock glasses optional.
1. Chapter 1

She had been surprised, and ultimately, honored, that Sherlock had come to her and trusted her with the biggest secret of their lives. Certainly, her skill and her access to resources had been crucial. But his vulnerability in that moment sealed her devotion to him. In all the years she had been watching him so carefully, she had never seen him like that.

Things had changed between them. Ever since the humiliating incident at Christmas, she had approached him differently, felt differently about him and herself. She had hated him, yes, but not really. John had tried to cheer her later, make her feel special because Sherlock had actually apologized and asked forgiveness. But she knew. She knew it was her own doing that Sherlock had so much power to hurt her. She had put her heart in his hands knowing full well he would break it.

So the next few times they saw each other, her infatuation transmuted into something more real. Actual love, perhaps. But mostly acceptance. He was, and always would be, unable to be anything other than what he was. She would be loyal to him forever. She would probably always fantasize about him. But she knew her heart wasn't safe in his hands. Her formerly squeaky, giddy voice became smoother, clearer. She could look directly at him without nervous smiles bubbling up.

And something interesting happened. The more she let her real self show, the stronger she felt, the more he listened to her. But that wasn't surprising-the surprising part was that she didn't care about pleasing him as much as she thought she would.

When the day came that he genuinely needed her, she committed to him. They spent so much time working through the details, making sure his death would be convincing, even to John. Especially to John.

She had never bothered getting to know John that well, but she did know his devotion to Sherlock was unwavering. She had told him, "He'll never believe you were a fake, Sherlock. Never."

Sherlock dismissed this. "I'll make him believe."

She felt compelled to point out, "He may not forgive you for deceiving him. For leaving him."

He paused at that, considered. "It's a risk," he had said briskly without looking at her.

And she knew she had been right to take her heart back from him. It had taken him five seconds to decide to break John's.

She had seen people hollowed out by grief before. She had experienced loss and aching sadness of her own, so she was not unprepared to see the range of emotion at Sherlock's funeral. But she had never had to pretend to mourn, to feign grief while knowing a secret that could end others' suffering. And she had never watched John as carefully as she did that day.

He stayed back. Hands clasped behind his back. When anyone spoke to him, he nodded, looked at his feet, cleared his throat. But when he thought no one was looking, she saw. He was one strong breeze away from capsizing.

And the overwhelming guilt she felt morphed into an anger at Sherlock so strong it surprised her.

Two weeks after, a phone that was not hers began ringing in her coat pocket as she finished buying coffee in the park. It rang three times before she could locate it.

"Hello?"

"Don't say my name. Just say okay."

"Okay," she answered shakily.

"Things are progressing more slowly than I'd hoped. I don't know when I'll be able to contact you, but I wanted to say . . . thank you."

And before she could utter a syllable, he had hung up.

Everything had needed to happen so quickly. From inception to actualization, there was so little time, and Molly found herself immersed in the details of Sherlock's death-not what would come after. Sherlock had never explained what he had planned to do once the world believed he was dead, but just conveyed a general understanding that he was doing this, in some complicated way, in order to protect not just John, but everyone-John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Molly. Every time she asked him anything specific he answered that she was safer not knowing, that her role was over once his "body" was buried.

But, of course, it wasn't really over. Without realizing it, she had committed to, potentially, a lifetime of lying to people who mattered to Sherlock, who mattered to her. She saw Lestrade regularly, but was lucky in that he had stopped mentioning Sherlock after a week or two; perhaps he was afraid she would ask him how he was doing, and was clearly wrestling with some guilt of his own. Mrs. Hudson had asked her to come for tea one afternoon and Molly managed to convince her that going to Baker Street would be too much, and she would host at her flat instead. Mrs. Hudson was delighted to be invited out and even more delighted to be waited on and have Molly's cat, Toby, curling around her legs and purring. They had traded recipes, chatted about nothing, and ended up talking about Sherlock not at all, and John only a little.

Molly had asked how John was doing, and knew from Mrs. Hudson's face that he was bad off. Mrs. Hudson made it seem that he was okay, sad, of course, but okay, but Molly saw the truth in her hesitation, her fractured smile.

Six weeks after the funeral, and she couldn't put if off any longer. She would have to see him. If only to punish herself.

221 Baker Street.

She stood on the doorstep a moment, a canvas bag hanging from each hand. She could simply leave the bags on the step. There could be no doubt as to whom they were intended for. And she wasn't the sort who required acknowledgment.

Before she could decide, the door was opening, and her nerves reactivated.

"Oh, hello, Molly dear," greeted Mrs. Hudson kindly. She noticed the bags. "For him?"

"Him?" Molly repeated, then grimaced. She'd promised herself to stop repeating what others said. Bad habit born of trying to buy time to compose a sentence and it only made her feel daft. "Yes, of course, for John," she answered, still smiling too much.

"You are sweet," Mrs. Hudson replied, patting Molly's arm. "Go on up, then. He's in."

"Oh! I was wondering if, you know, if you wouldn't-" But she knew she couldn't back out. She needed to see for herself how John truly was. She took a breath. "Yes, alright. How is he?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "Well, he's . . . he's managing, isn't he?" She changed the focus quickly. "But how are you, dear?"

Molly returned the sad smile. "Managing."

"It's good of you to check on him. You know, I think Sherlock would have liked that," Mrs. Hudson concluded, and Molly found herself unable to respond. "Well, I've got to pop out to the market. I'll see you later, Molly."

"Yes, alright, Mrs. Hudson." The women traded places so that Molly was now inside the threshold, waving good bye and closing the door behind her.

She looked up the dark staircase toward 221b. Nothing else for it now. Screwing up her courage, she climbed the stairs, the two bags swinging along with her.

John sat in the kitchen, staring at the open freezer. It needed cleaning out, badly. In the weeks since Sherlock's funeral, his many experiments were deteriorating into health hazards, and John had moved as many as he could from the refrigerator into the freezer. John knew he needed to dispose of them completely, give everything a proper disinfecting and start fresh.

Ella, John's therapist, had recommended lists. Simple lists, to tangibly anchor each day. Go to work. Do the shopping. Eat. "Clean freezer" was the only task written in his notebook, in capitals under the day's date. The only goal for the entire day.

He looked over the jars, the Petri dishes, last handled by Sherlock himself, and felt his eyes burning.

He almost didn't hear the knocking, it was so soft.

A visitor. Almost certainly a woman. Lestrade, Mike, they never knocked that softly. A woman meant chatting and tea, and pretending he felt better than he really did. He hung his head a little, then rearranged his face as he pulled the door open.

"Hello, Molly," John said, forcing the smallest of smiles. She was standing there in a navy pea coat and faded jeans, a ponytail, no make-up, and holding bags doubtless full of some sort of grief-fueled cooking.

"Hello, John," she said evenly, managing not to sound too squeaky. "I've brought you some food," she said simply.

"Oh, thanks. Yeah." Automatic.

She looked him over. He was in his black and white striped jumper and jeans, and a little thinner than she remembered him. Dark half moons under the eyes, a tight, forced smile. He was reaching for the bags, and as she handed them to him, he looked up at her ever so briefly, and she saw. He was adrift.

He was making to say goodbye, to shoo her out, and she imagined him tossing the bags in a corner and going back to whatever miserable, depressing things he did to fill his time in the flat, their flat, stuffed with memories and Sherlock's ghost.

No, no, no. She couldn't, couldn't leave it at that. She stepped inside.

"Molly-"

"John, I know you don't want me here."

He was shocked she had said it aloud. "No, it's not that-"

"Of course it is." She smiled a little nervously. "And I don't want to intrude."

"You're not."

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he acquiesced. Just a little.

He sighed. "I'm not . . . I'm not good company lately, I'm afraid."

"I don't expect you to be," she said honestly. "I just came to . . ." The main reasons she had come were secret, but she could tell him her other reasons, equally true reasons. "I know that you and I aren't exactly friends, and I know I've been distant with you in the past, even jealous, maybe, no, definitely . . ."

She recognized she was rambling, and stopped herself, took a breath. "But . . ."

And she tried very hard not to start crying, so she blinked hard and looked right at him, her brown eyes meeting his blue ones frankly. "We both loved him," she said gently.

John was still for a moment, and she thought he might, maybe, admit it, but then he cleared his throat, looked down, and said only, "Well."

She forgave him. "You don't have to say anything, John."

And he didn't.

Talking certainly didn't seem like the best plan, she decided. She reached over for the bags, taking them easily from his hands, and strode to the kitchen. She pulled out the meat pie she'd made and placed it on the counter, and from the second bag, the beer, still cold from the market. He watched her as she glanced toward the refrigerator, and he held his breath.

The notebook on the counter had caught her eye.

She looked up at him where he still stood a few feet from the open door, seemingly rooted in place.

"John. Shall I . . . clean the freezer, then?"

Anyone else, he would have said no. He would have been embarrassed that they had asked, and would have hated the idea of them touching Sherlock's things. But Molly was different. She seemed different. Sad, but focused, like her grief had given her some sort of clarity. Beyond that, Molly had probably been the one to procure most of what was in there to begin with, and she certainly understood Sherlock's experiments.

And, above everything else, she was right. They both loved him.

John nodded, granting permission, and she nodded back a little before turning back to the task at hand. She removed her coat, hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair and pushed up the sleeves of her pink henley shirt. She heard him close the door to the flat, then climb the stairs up to his room as she rooted around in her handbag for her stash of latex gloves and searched under the sink for empty bin-bags.

John felt nothing as he climbed the stairs to his room. He left the door open and sat at the edge of the bed, hearing jars clinking together, the water running in the sink, Molly's quiet efficiency.

He hadn't really decided to stay at 221b. He didn't really make decisions at all. After . . . After, he just came home. Hung up his coat. Locked the door. Brushed his teeth.

This robotic behavior continued, almost constantly since then. He ate, when he remembered to. He went to work and saved lives. He bought milk and tea and watched the telly. It all had as much meaning as turning a crank or pulling a lever.

He spoke to people, well-meaning people who asked him how he was, and he told them lies so they wouldn't worry and then always, deftly, changed the subject.

But he couldn't sleep. Not at night. Not in his bed.

The nightmares were so much worse now, worse than they had ever been. His heart ripped open anew as he awoke in a panic, remembered that what he had dreamed was real, that Sherlock was never, ever coming home.

He usually fell asleep on the sofa in front of the telly. At some point he would wake and turn the light on, read something, anything, until his eyelids refused to stay open. The only time he seemed able to sleep in his own bed was during the day, and only with the curtains wide open. Each nap felt like a state of torpor, and he always awoke surprised at how much time had passed, as though he'd been hibernating, shutting himself down to escape the winter.

Molly was certain that multiple parties were watching John and probably even listening in on him at home, at work. She never caught anyone following her, but Sherlock had said she'd be unlikely to spot them. As she busied herself, putting the beer in the fridge to cool, setting the pie in the oven to warm, she ruminated on how to get John somewhere where they would be neither observed nor overheard. The solution was not presenting itself, and she was running out of things to tidy.

As she scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed again, she resolved anew. There was no question of her telling him. To keep the truth from him much longer would be beyond cruel, even if the secrecy had been for his own safety. She would have to find a way to tell him, a way to make him understand what was at stake, that no matter how angry or worried he may be, he probably wouldn't be able to do anything about it. But at least he would know. Sherlock was alive. In danger, yes, and unlikely to return anytime soon, but alive.

When John woke, the room was darkening as the sun dipped below the skyline. A glance at his watch told him he'd been asleep nearly three hours. So when he went downstairs and found Molly, he was confused. She sat curled up on the sofa, barefoot, her reddish brown hair long since loosed from its ponytail, her hands half hidden by the cuffs of her shirt as she read a mystery novel of John's.

She heard him breathing and looked up.

"Oh! Hello," she said, smiling.

"You're still here?" he asked, a bit groggy from sleep.

"Yes. I hope you don't mind. I just finished cleaning up, actually."

Groggy or not, he knew it wouldn't take that whole time to deal with the freezer, and the confused expression on his face only deepened.

"I did the freezer, but then it only made sense to clean the fridge as well. And the oven. And the bathroom really needed attending to."

His mouth was hanging open a bit at this point.

"And I may have swept," she admitted sheepishly. "And mopped. Just a bit."

"Molly, you didn't have to do . . . any of that," he said.

"Oh, I know, I just . . . I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye," she began in a rush, "and you were sleeping so soundly, so I just kept on with it, and . . . "

She blushed. "I clean when I'm nervous."

He nodded a little. "And ramble."

She closed her eyes and nodded back. "And ramble."

He found himself smiling, nothing forced about it this time.

"Okay, then. Shall we eat?" she asked, setting the book on the side table and standing up from the sofa.

We? he thought. He couldn't remember ever having shared food with her before, much less a proper meal.

"Pie's ready; I think you'll like it," she said, striding into the kitchen without waiting for him to answer. She spoke over her shoulder to him as she pulled clean bowls from the cupboard. "Let's eat in there, shall we? Watch some telly?"

She noticed he hadn't said anything and turned to look at him, sensing his hesitation. She padded back over to him and surprised him yet again by standing right in front of him, looking up into his face with her earnest coffee-brown eyes.

"John, it's okay. It's not pity."

Well, he didn't know about that; everything everyone had done lately was born out of pity.

"It's not a date," she continued.

Well, he certainly didn't know what to say to that, so he just kept looking at her with his gently puzzled expression. He was finding her candor so surprising; had she always been so? He couldn't remember.

"And . . . I promise not to ask you how you're doing," she concluded.

That tipped it for him. "Good," he said, and the puzzlement melted into relief. "I hate when people ask me that," he confessed, shaking his head a little.

"So sit. We'll eat. And then I'll be off, alright?" she said, still holding his gaze directly.

He pressed his lips together in a thin smile and nodded, and she turned back to the kitchen, finding forks, opening beer.

He sank into the sofa, located the remote and started flipping channels, and she came back with a tray laden with their bowls and two opened beers, setting it on the low table in front of them. She climbed onto the sofa next to him, sitting cross-legged and balancing her bowl in her lap.

"Looks like our choices are Monty Python and the Holy Grail, or Pride and Prejudice," John offered, and she was glad because he was choosing films as options, something long to watch that would keep her there longer. Now that she had seen the state he was in, she absolutely needed to stay in contact with him.

"Which one?" she asked.

"Oh, the Colin Firth-Jennifer Ehle one," he answered calmly.

She openly stared at him. "Are you saying that just to please me?"

He looked at her, seemingly confused again. "What?"

"Are you being chivalrous? Or do you actually want to watch a six-hour adaptation of a Jane Austen novel?" she asked, not unkindly, though she couldn't control a tone of surprise from entering her voice.

He looked away towards the screen. "It's very well done," he defended, though his voice suggested there was more to it.

"And?"

Damn, but she was direct. Well, if truth was what she wanted, truth she would get, he decided. "And it's longer. It's six hours of distraction, isn't it?" He looked up at her again, letting the misery enter his eyes again, a fuller picture than what she had glimpsed when she had first arrived. And he was grateful when she simply turned her own eyes to the screen and said, "Darcy and Lizzie it is, then."

Relieved, John looked down at his bowl of food, completely unable to identify what it was, but not really caring. He tried a forkful and was a bit surprised to find it quite tasty, but then, a few moments after swallowing, the back of his mouth was on fire.

He dropped his jaw in astonishment and he actually panted.

Molly looked over at him, alarmed.

"Good God, woman!" he managed, eyes wide.

She handed him his beer, quickly. "This will help," she said, and he nearly snatched it from her and took an enormous gulp.

"Too spicy?" she asked, almost teasingly, but he was still reeling and not catching her tone.

"No, no." He coughed. "Well, a bit. I mean, it's really good, but it makes you pay for it."

She giggled a little and he tried to smile even though his lips were now burning.

"What is it, exactly?" he asked.

"Oh, it's a recipe Mrs. Hudson gave me, a sort of Mexican stew adapted into a meat pie. Pork, corn, onions, garlic, and this red chile sauce, all baked in the pastry."

"It's wonderful," he said, sniffing mightily. He saw her dubious glance and responded, "Really, I like it. It just caught me unawares."

"Sorry, sorry," she said, "I just assumed you were this manly type, you know, ex-army doctor who can handle anything, eats crocodiles for breakfast and such," she said, openly teasing him now as she took a big bite from her own bowl.

"Yeah, of course," he responded. "I just usually eat them raw." He cleared his throat. "Unseasoned."

"Oh, right," she said, smiling still. He took another bite even though his face was red, and he continued sniffing.

"Need some tissues?"

"Shut up."

She turned back to her own food, suppressing giggles. Maybe he wasn't as bad off as he had seemed.

She hadn't thought it through at all, hadn't remembered. Tall, aloof, superior, with dark curls, Colin Firth's Darcy was alarmingly similar to Sherlock. Though she and John had fallen into a semi-comfortable silence and Molly had done her best not to check him too often, she found herself filled with thoughts of Sherlock, and couldn't imagine that John wasn't feeling the same. Damn it. She was here to comfort John, to decide what to tell him, and yet she was the one suddenly blinking back tears, even though she knew Sherlock had not died, that he was in fact alive. And she was so angry, so helpless, because she was the only one who knew, she assumed, or had Sherlock told others? He had never given her the whole picture, the whole plan, and she felt abandoned, left to navigate the lies and secrets on her own.

She felt John's arm slide around her shoulders, and she sank into him without a word, letting her head nestle onto his shoulder. Perhaps she deserved just a little comfort herself.

Not surprisingly, she had fallen asleep, and some hours later John turned off the television and found himself in a bit of a dilemma. Molly had slid down over time, now laying across most of the sofa with her head resting on his thigh. He didn't mind that so much; he was feeling calmer with her there, somehow soothed by this woman he didn't know as well as he had thought he did. Now, however, he himself was tired, and though he had many times in his life slept sitting up, it wasn't exactly comfortable. But if he moved to get up, he would surely wake her, and then she'd leave, and he found he didn't want her to leave.

And yet he was pretty sure his leg had fallen asleep.

He tried to wiggle ever so slowly into a more comfortable position, but she must not have been deeply asleep because her head lifted and her eyes blinked up at him, not yet adjusted to the moonlit room.

"John?" she asked sleepily.

"Mmm."

"Oh!" She awoke more fully and moved to sit up, and he lifted his hand from where it had been resting on her hip as she sat up next to him. "Oh. I didn't- I mean . . ."

She stopped herself and sighed. "Here I thought I was supposed to be comforting you."

And she smiled shyly at him.

Chin down, deep brown eyes looking up at him, long, dark hair falling messily around her face. And smiling at him.

"Let's not worry about 'supposed to's," he said softly.

Her shining eyes widened, but John Watson was tired of thinking, tired of feeling nothing, so he lifted his hand to her face and brought her to him.

Their lips met in a soft, hesitant kiss, once, twice, and Molly moved closer, drawn to his mixture of tenderness and anguish that echoed her own. His arm wound round her waist, and they were kissing, kissing, over and over, slow, aching kisses that made Molly sigh, quickened her breathing.

This wasn't the plan.

But he was so deliciously warm, and so full of what she had been feeling herself. In every touch she felt his sadness, his anger, his loneliness. She felt his excellent kisses persuading her like soft, urgent phrases between them.

Please. Let me have this. Say yes.

Yes.

They found themselves standing, then stumbling and kissing their way up the stairs, hands moving over backs, holding on tight. John kicked the door open with his foot, and suddenly, upon seeing the unmade bed staring up at them, the spell was broken, and they stopped.

He breathed heavily through his nose, and looked up at her, searchingly.

She blinked, sensing her face was flushed and her eyes likely glazed over from sheer, physical want.

"Well," he said nervously, without meaning anything in particular.

"Mmm," she murmured, not trusting her voice quite yet.

He cleared his throat. "That was . . . "

"Unexpected," she finished for him in a voice that sounded too low and husky to be her own. She swallowed.

He had no idea what to say next.

She was coming back to reality enough to start chastising herself for taking advantage of him, for letting herself get carried away when it was likely to make him even more angry with her when she finally found a way to tell him the truth. She saw him trying to decide what to do, and she picked up the reins.

"I'm not going to have sex with you," she said.

She'd bewildered him again, but he just half smiled at her while crinkling his eyes in confusion.

"Don't know about you, but I'm not in a state to be making big decisions," she continued, and he saw that she was giving him a way out.

"No, ah, I think you're . . . you're not wrong about that," he agreed.

She glanced at the bed. "Look, it's late. We're both tired, and . . ."

"Sad?" he offered.

She nodded. "So." She took his hand.

"So?" he asked, cocking his head to one side.

She led him gently towards the bed, and he didn't protest when she sat down and pulled him down to sit next to her.

"So," she said, inclining her head towards his. "A kiss. A cuddle. And actual sleep. Yeah?"

Actual sleep seemed unlikely, and he feared having a nightmare while in her presence, but he agreed anyway. "Yeah."

She kissed him softly, without heat, just kindness, and then they were tunneling under the blanket. As they lay facing each other, Molly brought her hands up to twine around his and kissed his fingers.

"Goodnight, John."

He looked back at her a bit wistfully, feeling so very tired. "Goodnight, Molly."

He watched her close her eyes, felt her relax next to him, witnessed her falling asleep.

How did she do that? He was so fractured, and she just got into bed with him like it was nothing, like she wanted to be there.

He felt his eyelids drooping.

She is kind, he argued.

Trusting.

Loyal.

And pretty.

John slept.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, John was more than a little surprised that he had slept through the night without a nightmare, though there had been some dreams he couldn't remember the details of. Of course, being spooned around Molly like they'd been a couple for ages may have helped. She tucked so neatly into his arms, all her curves matching his somehow.

He managed to extricate himself without waking her and padded downstairs quietly. In normal life, real life, there would be some panic at this stage. But Sherlock's death (he refused to say the word suicide) had made him feel like he had skated into some alternate universe created by a sadistic science fiction writer who wanted to see how much John could suffer, how numb he could become. Molly, for all her comfort and kindness, seemed surreal, a visitation.

He made her coffee, and by the time it was ready she had appeared downstairs, already gathering her things, finding her shoes. He waited in the kitchen, and when she came to him she smiled and looked nervous, and he didn't quite know what to do himself, so he just handed her the mug.

"Thanks," she said, leaning against the counter and not kissing him, he noticed.

"Yeah, of course," he said automatically, leaning himself against the kitchen table for lack of anything else to do. It didn't seem like they'd be sitting down to breakfast.

She took a sip. He'd guessed how she took it (milk and two sugars maybe?) and she seemed satisfied with it, but still, the nervousness lingered.

"Well," she said, putting down the cup. "I hate to leave all of a rush, but I'm supposed to be at Bart's today and well, look at me," she said, gesturing to her slept-in clothes and messy hair.

John just looked at her and smiled a little. Alternate Universe John didn't remember any of the suave things he used to say to women the morning after. "Shall I . . . shall I walk you out, then?" he asked, feeling it was inadequate as soon as he'd said it, but he honestly didn't know where any of it, this, them, was going.

"Okay," she answered simply, beginning to look more and more like she yearned to escape him. She waited for him to put on his shoes, his coat, and then they were walking out of the flat, down the stairs, until they found themselves at the bottom of the steps outside the building.

"Well," he said lamely, not really looking her in the eye. "Thanks, for . . . for everything."

She had more courage than he did, it seemed, and she looked right at him. "Thank you. I needed to see you, and you let me," she said cryptically.

That shook him out of his fog a bit. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sure you've been telling people you're fine, and they've been letting you tell them that. But you didn't tell me you were fine. You didn't lie," she answered.

"No, I didn't lie," he responded, suddenly feeling more serious, and the memory of Sherlock's last words to him (lies!) came back with more force than he expected.

She saw it in his eyes, the set of his jaw, before he said it.

"I believe in Sherlock. He wasn't a fraud," he said in a low voice, and she saw his eyes glisten.

She held his gaze. "Of course he wasn't."

The fact the Molly believed in Sherlock, too, that she would never doubt him either, both strengthened him and undid him. He blinked back tears and tried to continue. "You see, I believe . . ."

He paused significantly and she feared what he might confess, that perhaps he thought Sherlock was still alive somehow, and she had to stop him before he said it out loud to whoever might be listening. She placed her hand on his shoulder.

"John," she said, and she leaned in towards him, intending to kiss his cheek, but then he moved towards her, and he was kissing her, softly, kissing her in thanks.

He stopped, his forehead against hers, so easy, she was only two inches shorter than him, and his hands found hers.

"Well," Molly said, filling the silence ambiguously. She felt his grip on her fingers slacken. He was worried, he was about to apologize.

She looked up at him. "I think you'd better come to dinner, then."

He smiled, a real smile, and had she not been thinking about how to let him know what was really going on, she might have paid more attention to the little flutter she'd felt at seeing some actual happiness on his face, happiness she had caused.

"Yes, some tikka masala, I think. Not too hot, though. And you can meet Toby, my better half," she joked.

He looked terrified for a moment. "You're married?" he blurted.

"Oh, God, no!" Her turn to be bewildered, her hands flying up to her face. "No, no! Toby's my cat!"

And he started giggling, damn it, and then she was giggling, and it all felt rather ridiculous, and wonderful. And then she remembered.

"Here." She fished in her handbag, digging out a small notepad and pen. She began writing. "My address."

She knew, as soon as he read it, the giggling would end, but she had to warn him.

She tore off the sheet. She didn't fold it, but handed it to him, her eyes on his face as he took it from her.

He glanced at it. Squinted.

The first line was her address, but the second line-

_Be careful. We're all being watched._

And the smile fell. But just a little, and Molly, because she was so close to him, saw him mask his reaction, rearrange his face.

"Right, then," he said, with a fresh smile. "When are you off?"

She smiled back, trying to put so much into her eyes. I'm sorry. Don't panic. I will explain as soon as I can.

"At five, today, so come around seven, you think?"

"I'll be there," he answered, and he leaned in for a peck on the lips, not a real kiss this time, and she found she could easily tell the difference.

"Bye," she said, lifting her hand and wiggling her fingers at him, smiling, blinking, and he nodded. She turned, making her way toward the tube station, forcing her face to reflect general contentment as her mind raced.

A shame, she thought briefly, to ruin a real kiss with a pretend one. Would he invalidate the entire time she had been at the flat? Assume she'd been putting on some sort of show the whole time for whoever was surveilling them? Certainly, he would be curious, anxious, probably even angry. But, amazingly, he had hidden all of that from his expression. She had only sensed all of this from the last, feigned kiss. And so Molly was encouraged. Maybe he could, after she finally told him all of it, maybe he could prove Sherlock wrong.

John stood still for a long while, watching Molly walk away until he couldn't see her amongst the morning hustle and bustle. Then, marshalling his considerable self-control, he went back up to the flat and did not immediately begin tearing it apart, searching for listening devices or miniscule video cameras. Instead, he grabbed his wallet and his phone, then went back down the stairs, out on the street, striding toward the café two blocks over. He ordered and took a seat, taking into account exits, lines of sight. Opening up the newspaper, he pretended to read as his mind churned, for, unlike Sherlock, John's deductions did not come in lightning fast, purely logical strings of thought. John had all those messy, unfocused feelings to deal with.

And right now he was feeling rather paranoid and confused.

Molly's note had said "all", all being watched-Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Possibly. But Molly, too? And she had warned him directly, so surely John himself. He rewound his life, trying to remember what anyone might have witnessed. Nothing important. A life half-lived.

Last night had probably been the most interesting thing that had happened in 221b for seven weeks. However, since last night was only adding to his confusion, he set it aside for the time being.

Who would be watching? Mycroft, possibly. Just the thought of Mycroft still turned his stomach. Moriarty's people?

But that led to the most important question. Why? With both Moriarty and Sherlock dead, what could it matter? Why would anyone care to see or hear, over weeks, months, the effects of Sherlock's death on any of these people? What did they expect to see? What were they concerned might happen?

If he was right as to who was being watched, each of those people believed in Sherlock and did not buy into Moriarty's smear campaign. Mrs. Hudson and Molly both loved Sherlock outright and had known him longer than John had. Lestrade had yielded to pressure from Donovan, Anderson, and his superiors to arrest Sherlock, but it was clear Greg never believed that Sherlock was a fraud or had orchestrated crimes in order to "solve" them. And John. Well. John would never believe anything other than what he knew to be true, in his heart and mind. That Sherlock was brilliant, and maddening, and good, and that John knew him for real.

Well, delving into that particular box of sentiment wasn't getting him anything except fresh tears in his eyes and an iron grip on his coffee cup. He cleared his throat, loosened his grip on the mug and took a sip, turning a page of the newspaper to keep up appearances.

Why watch all of them? Only John might be considered dedicated and angry enough to enact some sort of revenge, and even then, on whom? The media? Pointless. Mycroft? Impossible. Donovan and Anderson? The thought had occurred to him, but who would care enough to bother preventing him, anyway?

Why watch all of them? Why watch Molly?

He stilled.

You'd watch them all if you thought they might know something. You'd watch them all if you thought they might be up to something. If you thought they might be contacted.

And then three new thoughts arrived in quick succession.

Molly knew something.

About Sherlock.

And she wanted to tell him what she knew.

He had spent seven weeks in a grey sea of sadness, drifting through his life. The long days followed each other meaninglessly, and the nights were simply to be endured. His dulled exterior had been punctuated only by the nightmares that echoed his own fall into nothingness.

But now, a breeze. Movement among the sails.

Something like life was rushing back into him.

As Molly went through her day, extracting, cataloging, analyzing, she found herself dropping things and forgetting her train of thought even though she was alone most of the time. No tall, raven-haired detective to make her flutter.

But things with John had gotten rather complicated, rather quickly. She knew now that she wanted to tell him everything. Had to. But the how was eluding her. She was fairly certain that her own flat was being watched, but how far had the observers gone? Audio? Video? Bugs on their clothes? It would be almost impossible to search without appearing to search. She could check her own clothing rather easily, and they could leave the flat, find a somewhat noisy place to have a drink or take a walk. But checking John would necessitate more touching and thus continuing with . . . whatever it was. A feigned romance? He had to know now that something was up, and he might even agree that pretended interest in each other would be a useful cover.

She found herself angry at Sherlock all over again, for making her lie and deceive, for making her scheme (with? against?) a man whose only crime against her was to earn Sherlock's affection. Because no matter what she told herself about her own relationship with Sherlock, what he and John had together was in another category altogether. In a matter of days, it seemed, they had become as inseparable as sand and sea.

And at that somewhat miserable moment, the door to the lab was opening and Molly looked up into the eyes of Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"Alright, Molly?" Sally greeted casually enough.

"Oh, hello, Sergeant. Yeah, fine. You?" Molly asked, setting aside the flask she'd been staring at for the last few minutes.

"Well, it's a bit too quiet if you ask me," Sally replied easily. "One thing I'll say about the freak, he was never boring," she continued.

Molly frowned openly.

"I'm sorry, I know you don't want me to call him that," Sally replied, and Molly tipped her head to one side in acknowledgment of the rare apology. Sally pursed her lips. "I suppose I'm still angry at him."

"Things were better at the end there," Molly said softly.

"Only because you wised up, not because he changed," Sally declared forcefully, crossing her arms.

Molly said nothing, and Sally had the decency not to argue.

"Well. Been practicing, have you?" Sally asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"Oh yes, thanks. Every Saturday morning. And that class you recommended upstairs is great," Molly said, smiling genuinely now.

"Good."

The pause lingered, and Molly remembered that Sally had probably not come down to Bart's for chit chat. She walked towards the desk and fished out a file. "I've got my notes on the Merritt case if you want them; definitely suicide," she said, walking back to Sally. "Here you go."

"Thanks, doctor." Sally took the file.

Molly smiled. "You're about the only one who calls me 'doctor', you know," she said.

"Do you or do you not have a doctorate in biochemistry?" Sally demanded.

"I do," Molly replied confidently.

"Alright then." She turned to the open door. "Keep at it, now," she added, stepping through.

"Of course."

The door closed behind the sergeant, and Molly found herself remembering the day, many years ago, when Sally Donovan had earned her unending gratitude.

After driving himself mad with thinking, John ended up begging Sarah for a shift.

"Anything," he pleaded over the phone. "I'll drain abscesses all day for free."

"Well, if you're that desperate, what I actually need help with is charts and billing," replied Sarah.

John groaned. "I'd rather drain abscesses."

She chuckled a little at that. "Me too."

"Alright, see you in a bit, then," John said, frankly grateful for anything to keep him occupied until it was time to go to Molly's flat.

Grateful had become his default setting with Sarah, it seemed. She remained affectionate with him and accepted his arbitrary availability without complaint. But after their rather eye-opening trip to New Zealand, he knew neither one of them was interested in a romantic relationship anymore. She'd made it clear that any man of hers would drop everything to be with her, not with Sherlock bloody Holmes. But along with having her full measure of self-respect, she was also forgiving and loyal, and he knew that he was beyond lucky to count her among his friends.

Listing his friends took only a few seconds-Sherlock (who would always count, dead or not), Mike, Greg, Sarah. And Molly, it seemed. Certainly, she was a friend, but she was right. They didn't really know each other that well. Something he meant to rectify tonight.

Molly stared at her closet, the green dress calling to her through its clear plastic sheath.

Sometime after Connie Prince had been murdered, Molly and Mrs. Hudson, as fellow fans, had commiserated. And then once Molly had explained the "Jim from IT" fiasco, the well-intentioned older lady had taken it upon herself to give Molly a makeover. Molly generally chose the comfortable and the familiar for her wardrobe, and she inwardly cringed at spending an entire day trying on fancy clothes and letting strangers paint her face at makeup counters.

But Mrs. Hudson had been so happy.

"You're a classic autumn, dear; I wish I could wear that shade of green!" she had declared, and so Molly had bought the silky wrap dress so as not to disappoint her even though it was more expensive than any entire outfit she had ever owned and draped over her slender frame in such a way that she nearly blushed.

And then it had languished in the closet, hiding behind her cardigans and plaid ruffled blouses for months.

Sod it. No point in doing this by halves.

So. Green dress. Hair pinned up with artfully escaping tendrils. Just enough makeup to enhance her eyes and shine up her lips. And now, barely enough time to put the finishing touches on dinner before John arrived.

A bottle of wine tucked under his arm, John arrived promptly at seven at Molly's building. Once inside the main door, he followed the signage to her first floor flat and knocked on the bright red door with a brass peephole.

He heard scuttling from inside and then a pause, and then the door swung open to reveal Molly, smiling, barefoot, and wearing a bright pink and orange plaid apron only somewhat splattered with what he presumed was curry.

She greeted him warmly, and he smiled back, standing still for a beat too long. Feeling foolish, he moved in to kiss her cheek softly. And she blushed.

And then he was nervous, because no matter how hard you're pretending, you can't fake a blush, he thought.

He looked away, stepped in, handed her the wine. She thanked him, took the wine, showed him where to hang his coat, moved back to the kitchen. And it all felt strange, half play-acting, half real. The Story of the First Proper Date.

Her flat was tiny, smaller than his by half, but without all the clutter or hideous wallpaper it managed to seem cozy rather than cramped. John's eyes flicked to the bedroom as he noticed movement there. The grey and white cat poked its head around Molly's bedroom door and quickly decided he'd spend the rest of the night hiding under the bed.

"That's Toby," Molly introduced. "He's feeling shy tonight."

That was fine with John. He hadn't wanted to tell her that he wasn't all that fond of cats.

Blue walls and white furniture made the flat feel clean and comfortable, but the most inviting element was the rich, earthy smell coming from the miniscule kitchen.

"That smells amazing," John said genuinely, following Molly as she fetched wine glasses and an opener.

"Thank you," she said. She handed him the opener and, as he dealt with the wine, she uncovered little ovals of dough in preparation for putting them in the oven.

"You made naan?"

"I did," she said with a spot of pride. She began to untie her apron.

He looked back to the wine, taking up a filled glass in each hand, and turned back toward her.

He froze.

Molly hung up the apron on a hook behind her and then noticed the wide-eyed, half-gaping look on John's face.

"What is it?" she asked, puzzled.

John swallowed. He put the glasses down on the counter.

"What?" she asked softly, scanning his face as he walked towards her.

His arm came round her waist as his other hand found the nape of her neck.

"Oh," she managed before his lips met hers. Oh, real kisses this time, she thought. Lovely, warm kisses, laced with urgency. Kisses trailing across her cheek, nuzzling her neck as she sighed up into his ear.

He spoke against her skin.

"You. Are. Beautiful."

One more kiss, and then he pulled back, placing a hand on her adorably flushed cheek, and smiled at her.

"Oh," she squeaked, her voice unsteady after this onslaught of attention.

He grinned and stepped back a little, releasing her.

She straightened up and cleared her throat. "So, you, ah, like the dress then?"

He chuckled. "I like the dress," he acknowledged, his eyes sparkling at her. "I like the everything."

Good Lord, his eyes. She reached out and placed a palm over them. "Enough, Doctor Watson," she teased, "or you'll have me in a constant state of blush."

"Can't say I'd mind that, Doctor Hooper," he replied easily, and she wanted to kiss him all over again for the "doctor" bit, but she lowered her hand and stepped back towards the oven.

"Who knew you were such a rake?" she said, regaining her wits now that she was a relatively safe four feet away from him. He simply grinned at her without shame, and she shook her head a little as she slid the uncooked naan onto the heated baking stone, the oven so hot that John could feel the blast of heat from where he stood.

She shut the oven door and grabbed her glass. "Alright, wine then," she said, taking a long sip, and he did the same.

"Shall we-" she began, but then a phone was ringing.

Not her regular mobile.

The other phone.

Her hand shook a bit as she set the glass down and reached over to fetch the phone from her handbag on the kitchen table.

"Sorry," she managed to say to John as he watched her carefully.

"Hello?" she said into the phone.

Sherlock's tone was low and accusing. "What do you think you're doing?"

She paused, considering her answer. "I'm on a date, believe it or not," she said, somewhat defiantly, though her voice wavered a bit.

"It's not a date. You're planning to tell him. That's unacceptable." Mycroft could take lessons from him in how to sound polite and deadly at the same time.

"Unacceptable," she repeated, breathing out a laugh. Her eyes darted nervously to and from John's very concerned face. "I'll tell you what's unacceptable," she began.

"Don't be ridiculous. Stick to the plan."

What plan? she wanted to scream. You never let me in on the fucking plan. You simply gave orders, and I followed them.

"I'll not be told how to run my life, thank you," she bit off, and at that John cocked his head and took a step toward her.

"You needn't be dramatic for effect-"

She turned her face away from John. "I'm not."

"Don't lie to-"

And Molly saw red. "Go to hell!" she hollered, feeling her eyes sting with tears.

"Don't tell him anything," Sherlock continued in his low serious voice. "Lives-"

"I'm through with orders," Molly said evenly, and she hung up on him.

John's face was one enormous question mark, but Molly wasn't looking at him. She flung the phone onto the carpet and let out an exasperated scream, actually balling up her fists and stomping in a quake of anger.

"Molly?" John asked, alarmed.

She took two huge breaths, and looked up at him. John. Poor, wretched John, who didn't know, who had been abandoned and lied to and she -she- was a part of it, a part of what had broken him. Her anger at Sherlock increased tenfold, and, quite without thought, she launched herself at John, half-hoping Sherlock was watching and seething at her disobedience. I'll show you it's a date.

John caught her as she tangled herself around him, pushing them both backwards towards the living room wall. One of her hands snaked up into his sandy blonde hair and one of her knees hooked up around him and he instinctively held her thigh to keep them from falling. Her kisses were brutal and rushed, pulling at his lips to open, and when he did, her tongue invaded him. She was practically assaulting him, her body pressing and moving against his. I'll imprint myself on him, your John.

And then he felt her reaching around them, pulling at his shirt until she could slide her hand along his warm skin, gliding her palm across the planes of his back, and her incessant mouth never left his neck or his face for a moment. I'll tell him everything and he'll thank me for it.

She was gentle hands and furious mouth, velvet skin and strong muscle against him, and something changed inside him, leading him to take over. He slid his hands firmly underneath her and picked her up, her legs wrapping around him as he spun them around and held her up against the wall. He pressed himself solidly against her with a satisfying thump, and she let out a gasp. Her arm held fast around his shoulders as his kisses slid down her neck toward the deep V of her intolerable dress.

An ear-splitting alarm began blaring, and John felt he had never wanted to shoot something more in his life than the ridiculous smoke alarm that had chosen that exact moment to go off. But now, Molly was quickly putting her feet back on the floor.

"Oh my God, the bread!" she cried, both hands clamping up to her forehead. He let her go, and they both rushed toward the kitchen. Molly grabbed the potholders, flung open the now smoking oven, and swiftly pulled out the baking stone with the charred naan blackened to a crisp. She dumped it, stone and all, into the metal sink, turning on the tap to cool it and sending up a rush of steam.

John climbed on a chair to detach the blasted alarm from the ceiling, removing its battery to silence the thing, and Molly opened her kitchen window to air out the smoke. She turned off the water and then the oven and looked back at John.

"Well, that'll make a great entry for your blog," she joked as he stepped down from the chair.

He laughed, softly at first, but then the giggles hit him and he was holding his side. Good Lord, was there anything more adorable in the world than John Watson giggling? She couldn't stop smiling.

"Let's take a walk," she suggested as his laughter subsided. "We'll buy some bloody bread somewhere and come back for a late supper, yeah?"

"Brilliant," he agreed.

She slipped on some pumpkin-colored flats and John helped her on with her cardigan (the ruffled cashmere ecru one she reserved for dates, not the white cotton one with cherries on it that was actually her favorite). He pulled on his own black jacket and she made a fuss of straightening his collar, but he caught her hands in his own.

"All sorted," he said kindly, and because she was clever and alert, she knew. He had already checked his own clothes.

"You?" he asked.

She nodded, communicating to him that she had done the same. God, how frustrating, she thought, everything with double meanings and secret messages. But she was selfishly grateful to be in this mess with him, instead of wandering through the mists alone. She grabbed her handbag, and, at the last moment, picked up the other phone from where she'd flung it.


	3. Chapter 3

Out on the street, the night air was, if not exactly warm, at least comfortable, and Molly was glad, since her very beautiful but very impractical cardigan had no buttons or closures of any kind. The lazy breeze coming over from the park across the street lifted the diaphanous ruffles, and as John held her hand she began to feel more relaxed.

John. He had to be swirling with questions. On their way out of the building she had explained that the phone call was from an ex-boyfriend, and, though she was clearly lying, he played along admirably. She marveled again that Sherlock hadn't trusted him to keep up the charade of his death. Sherlock had argued that John was a terrible liar, that the plan would fall apart because of this. She was convinced now that John could lie just fine when he needed to; he just couldn't lie to Sherlock.

She was going to find a way, a place, to tell John. It would happen. And soon.

But not before the universe made her life as complicated and awkward as possible.

Walking across the street at the next crossroads and coming towards them was Greg Lestrade, still in work clothes, with a bag of groceries hanging from one hand.

"Detective Inspector," she blurted, snatching her hand from John's, but not quickly enough. Damn these men, she thought, these detecting men who noticed everything. And even if he hadn't seen her walking down the street hand-in-hand with John Watson, which he had, of course, there was the matter of the dress, and the useless cardigan that covered nothing but her arms. She watched Greg's face as a progression of emotions played out there in the span of a moment-happiness to see her, blatant gaping at the dress, suspicion towards John, and a millisecond of heartbroken disappointment.

"Well. This is a nice surprise," Greg managed, completely failing to disguise the irony.

"Greg," John greeted. "On your way home?" he asked, guessing from the groceries.

Greg tore his gaze away from Molly. "Yeah. I live two streets over. Just grabbing some milk." And scotch, it looked like, but everyone was being polite enough not to mention it. John had known, vaguely, that Greg had moved into the city after splitting with his philandering wife, but as it had happened only a few weeks before Sherlock . . . well. So. He hadn't known where.

"Oh. Then, you two are practically neighbors," John said amiably, but then noticed that Molly was turning an alarming shade of tomato-red, and realized it was time to wrap things up.

Greg said nothing and kept looking at Molly like a boy whose dog had run away.

"We're just out for a walk," she said softly, her attempted light tone amplifying the discomfort all around.

"Right," said Greg, his own light tone belied by the questions in his eyes. Just a walk? In that dress?

"Well. Ah," said John helpfully.

"Right," Greg repeated more forcefully, looking up at John. "On you go, then. I've got date with the telly," he said, looking miserable then at having said it, but John didn't let the moment linger.

"Alright then, see you around," he said, and Greg just nodded once at them both and continued walking.

John turned to ask Molly if she was alright, but she had already started crossing the street in the direction of the park.

He jogged to catch up with her and she led them to an empty bench, sitting almost primly with her hands in her lap, but a dazed look in her eyes.

He sat down next to her, but not too closely, facing forward and appearing to watch the passersby in the fairly busy park. He snuck a sideways glance at her.

"No," she said softly, not meeting his eyes. "I'm not okay. I'm so very far from okay."

He wisely said nothing.

"Okay is in Australia. Okay is in Sri Lanka," she mumbled to herself.

John nodded a little. "Right. So, er . . . do you want to talk about it?" he ventured.

Molly took a deep breath. Shelve it, she ordered herself. "Maybe later," she answered, and she looked up at John apologetically. "You've been so patient, and we're finally in a spot where we most likely won't be heard."

His eyes shone with interest and he leaned towards her just the smallest bit.

She turned towards him and he mirrored her. She leaned in, and he matched her, until her lips were near his ear.

"I know something very important and very, very secret. And I think you've a right to know it too," she said softly. She felt his quick intake of breath. "But we need to find a way not to be seen when I tell you."

"Why?" he breathed, dying of impatience and curiosity.

"Because you're going to be . . . angry. You won't be able to hide it, and . . . and you shouldn't have to pretend," she answered truthfully. He should be able to have whatever full, honest, horrible reaction he was going to have to what she would tell him.

It sounded so patronizing, even to her ears, and she saw his jaw tense with frustration.

"I'd argue I've been pretty good at pretending," he said firmly, and it came out meaner than he meant it, but Molly believed she deserved any anger he might feel towards her and more.

"You are, John. Better than some expected," she admitted. "But you're going to have to do a lot more of it. And we're going to need time, and privacy, to figure out a plan."

He had a million questions, but more than that, a seed of hope was germinating inside his heart, because what else could she possibly tell him that would matter at this point? What else would require this level of caution and secrecy? What could it be other than-

Suddenly, he pulled her close, his arms clamping around her tightly, and his face buried itself into her neck, his eyes so unaccountably hot that he squeezed them shut.

She said nothing. She wanted to hold his hands and tell him everything, but she said nothing and just hugged him back tightly, putting as much reassurance into her arms as she possibly could.

He stilled himself. She felt him change beneath her hands, against her body, willing himself to continue the necessary charade. He pulled back enough to see her face clearly.

"How about a little holiday?" he said with an impish smile, and she fought the urge to balk at the show they were putting on.

"That's a bit fast," she answered, feigning modesty.

"So is that a no?" he asked, making puppy eyes at her, and she out and out laughed at him.

"Oh, stop. Of course, I'll go," she said. "Where?"

"Hmm. I'll surprise you. You have the weekend free, don't you?"

She nodded.

"Wonderful. You just, ah. You just be ready at eight and I'll come round for you."

"Be ready? I don't even know what to pack!" she protested girlishly, slapping his shoulder as though she were scolding him.

"Just pack everything. Or nothing. It'll be fine," he argued.

"Fine for you," she replied. "'Be ready at eight,' he says."

He laughed and hugged her again, and then he was whispering in her ear.

"Is all this-" He faltered, and then kissed her neck for emphasis. "This, really alright with you?" he asked, concern in his voice, and she realized that he thought he was taking advantage of her somehow.

"Yes!" she said firmly, intending to assuage his guilt but managing to sound downright eager. "I mean-Christ. It's all so bloody complicated. I mean, I didn't have a plan when I came over last night, not for . . . not for this," she explained, dropping her own kiss below his ear.

"But then I went and kissed you," John said softly, almost to himself, realizing that he had indeed kissed her without the slightest encouragement from her.

She smiled against his skin, remembering.

"But, just now. Ah. At your flat," he said delicately.

"Oh. Oh, God. Yes, I was. Rather," was all she could say for a moment. She gathered herself mentally. He deserved an actual answer. "In the middle of this whole confusing mess, I'm finding myself genuinely attracted to you," Molly confessed. She hurried to add, "but it's not about Sherlock. I know you're not him. You're not a substitute."

"Huh."

"Surprised?" she asked. Honestly, she was too. She hadn't given him the time of day most times, barely making chitchat with him. Her eyes were always for Sherlock.

"No. I mean, yes, but . . . I'm more surprised at you. You're so direct," he said, pulling away a bit to look at her, his own face puzzled.

"Well. Usually," she amended, considering the massive amount of lying and dissembling she'd been practicing the last seven weeks.

"You keep surprising me," he continued.

"Because you don't know me," she answered plainly.

"But. I _thought_ I did."

She shook her head. "How could you?" she asked, but not unkindly. "You've only seen Smitten Molly. Not Real Molly. Not until now."

He smiled ruefully. "And you're not smitten with me."

She started. "Did you want me to be?"

He looked down. "No." Shook his head and looked up again with determination on his features. "No. Not if it means I don't get to see Real Molly."

She placed a hand on his chest and gave him a genuine, bright smile. "You are sweet, John Watson."

He crinkled his nose.

"Oh, sorry. Right. Taboo words-sweet, nice, kind. But you are those things," she argued.

"So are you," he accused, and she knew what he meant.

"But we're not _just_ those things," she voiced for him, agreeing.

He nodded once and then leaned in to kiss her. When he was with her like this, when they were being honest, it was easy to kiss her, and easy to know if it was real when she kissed him back.

"Shall we, ah, go back and eat, then?" he suggested.

"Yes, of course," she answered amiably.

"And then maybe you can-you can tell me about what's happening with you and Lestrade that made him look at me like I'd kicked him in the balls," he said, frowning at her.

"Oh," she said demurely. "That."

"Yes, that."

She rolled her eyes and signed. "Honestly, my life has been so bollocksed up this last year that that was just the cherry on the bloody sundae," she said, shaking her head, and John smiled sympathetically.

They finally made it back to the flat with actual non-charred naan. The place still smelled strongly of smoke, so they opened all the windows and took their bowls of rice and chicken tikka masala over to the living room.

"Not too spicy this time," she said when she finished, setting her bowl on the coffee table.

"Perfect," he said around a mouthful. He swallowed. "Delicious."

He sopped up the last dregs of sauce with a bit of naan and happily pushed it into his mouth. Despite all the frustration, all the unknowns, the fog hanging over his life was lifting. He would soon know what Molly knew.

"Alright now. So tell me about what's going on with you and the good detective inspector," he prodded.

She sighed, waggling her head back and forth for a moment. "Well, nothing is actually going on. But it could. Someday."

"Why 'someday'?"

"Well, he's newly divorced, isn't he? Only three months, I think. He's brokenhearted and lost, and drinking too much," she said matter-of-factly.

John cocked his head to one side. "Well, when you put it that way . . ." He frowned a little and lifted one eyebrow.

"No! I don't mean to sound so calculating, I just. You know, I've had a run of bad luck in the romance department lately. You may have noticed."

"Yeah, right there with you," he said. "I can get girlfriends it seems. Just can't keep them very long," he continued, genuinely perplexed.

Molly was so very tempted to explain to him exactly why this was so, but since she was already going to hit him with a truckload of truth tomorrow, she decided to simply nod and leave it at that.

"It's not that I don't have-I mean, I care about Greg, of course, and it might be more than that, it's just." She sighed. "It's a little strange discussing this with you. Considering."

John shrugged. "Everything feels a little strange right now."

"I suppose you're right. Anyway, I'll always be grateful to him, ever since he and Sally came to my rescue," she said.

John bristled visibly. "Sally? Sally Donovan?"

"Yes."

His demeanor changed abruptly as his posture straightened and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How did Sally rescue you? From what?"

It was Molly's turn to look puzzled. "Don't you know? No one ever told you?"

"Molly, I have no earthly idea what you're talking about. Told me what?" John asked, brow furrowed.

Molly was astounded, but braced herself for telling the story again. "It was three and a half years ago. I was working in the lab, the week after New Year's, putting together a report for one of Sally's cases. In hindsight, it was stupid, but it just never occurred to me that . . . that anything bad would happen. I had left the door unlocked, knowing Sally was coming to get the final report . . ." She closed her eyes for a moment. "There was a man."

John seemed to be holding his breath as he listened.

"A deranged, violent man. Who was convinced somehow that I was a threat to him."

John shook his head, eyes full of concern.

"So, of course, I tried talking him to death," she laughed a little, but it was weak and brittle. "Anyway, things were getting a little rough, and I was hurt and trapped in a corner, but Sally arrived, and she clocked him over the head with one of those stools, the metal ones, you know. They fought for a moment. He hit her very hard, and she fell, and . . . her gun flew across the floor towards me."

His instincts, the sinking in his chest told him where this was going.

"I didn't know anything about fighting. I barely knew which was the business end of that gun. But I knew that he was not going to stop. Something in his mind had painted me as his enemy, and Sally, with all her training, had barely slowed him down. But I knew that if I shot him, shot him straight in the heart, he would stop. So I did. I stopped him," she said softly, but clearly.

Tears spilled onto her cheeks.

"I cry every time I tell it. Every time," she said without shame. She dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. "Anyway, Sally made sure I was alright. She calmed me down. Apparently, I wouldn't let go of the gun, but I don't really remember that part. She called Greg to come, and they made sure everything was reported accurately, processed accurately. It was ruled self-defense almost immediately, and I'm convinced it's because Sally and Greg were so thorough. They found out so much about him, who he was. He'd gone off his meds, had a history of violence, all documented," Molly explained, sticking to the facts.

"He hurt you?" John asked, focusing on the part she had glossed over.

"Oh, not permanently," she said, shaking her head.

"Molly."

"He. He pushed me. I fell. He kicked my ribs, so, yeah. That was. And then he kind of dragged me up and tried to choke me. Well, he was choking me when Sally came in."

John knew from experience that there was very little anyone could say to this that would mean anything, but he still teemed with anger at the thought of anyone hurting her, putting their hands on her with violence.

"It's alright now. I got better. They kept me in hospital a day or so. And Greg and Sally were there the whole time. They took shifts, staying with me."

"That's. That was good of them," John said, grudgingly in Sally's case.

"After that, Greg took it upon himself to teach me how to shoot. Set me up with an instructor at the firing range. And Sally signed me up for self-defense classes as soon as I was healed," she finished.

He was trying very hard not to wince at each mention of Sally's name, but she saw it anyway.

"I know, you have reasons-I have reasons-to be angry with her. But she. She saved my life. She's very protective of me. That's one of the reasons she always disliked Sherlock, the way he treated me, or the way I would let him treat me," she revised. "But I'm not excusing her behavior, John. She was wrong. What she did was wrong."

John dropped his eyes from hers and nodded, lips pressed together. "Yeah," was all he said. A thought returned to him. "Did-did Sherlock know?" he asked, looking up at her again.

"I don't know, honestly. He never mentioned it," she answered.

"It's hard to imagine that he wouldn't have noticed, even if Lestrade didn't tell him," John offered, imagining how much Sherlock might have deduced just from looking at her.

"Well, in my own head, I like to think that he did know, and he chose not to treat me any differently," she said, smiling a little sadly.

"I think that's likely," John replied kindly. And it was likely. Sherlock would have certainly noticed, known. And he would not deliberately hurt her, despite the many times he had done it unintentionally. "It's good. It's wonderful, actually, that you know that he wouldn't choose to be cruel to you. That all of it, it's just the way he was. We should have been friends from the beginning, Molly," John said, somewhat regretfully.

"Oh, that wouldn't have worked at all," she stated firmly.

"Why not?"

"I was infatuated with him, and you were taking all his attention away! I hated you."

His eyes widened. "Hated me?"

"Oh yes. Passionately. Don't you remember, when I 'forgot' your name?"

He squinted, trying to recall.

"When-ugh-when I was introducing 'Jim from IT' to Sherlock and you?"

"Oh. _Oh_."

"Yeah, _oh_." She shook her head. "You can't know, John, how stupid I felt, how foolish, once I found out who he really . . ."

"Hey," he said instantly, placing his hand on her shoulder. "We talked about this at the time, remember? It wasn't your fault. Moriarty was a master at manipulating people. An unhinged, psychotic master. There were three of us in the room that time and none of us saw him for what he truly was," he reminded her. "Not even Sherlock."

"I know. I know. It's just. Well, you didn't sit on your sofa with him, watching Glee and hoping he'd put his arm around you," she said miserably. She saw him glance around the room. "No, no. Not this room. Not this sofa. I've moved since then," she rushed to reassure him.

"Oh, right. Well. We were all just glad that he didn't hurt you," John said solidly.

"I know, I know. And he didn't." Well. That wasn't entirely true. After she found out who he really was, she was scared witless. She had moved out of fear, out of repulsion for the pink walls and chintzy furniture that she had surrounded herself with, that had gone from comforting and nostalgic to childish and naïve.

"Okay, so I think you've had enough highlights of my humiliating, horrifying past for one night," Molly declared. "Maybe it could be your turn tomorrow. Tell me about Afghanistan, or living with the world's only consulting detective."

A smile pulled at his lips. "Yes, I'll do that. You'll be feeling quite normal and well-balanced in no time."

"Oh, wonderful. Looking forward to it," she said, and she untangled herself from the sofa, gathering up dishes.

"Let me help," he said, standing.

"Oh, no. You'd best be off; you've a holiday to plan for, remember?" she teased.

"Are you-you're kicking me out?" he asked, indignant.

"Oh, yes," she said over her shoulder as she deposited the dishes in the sink. She walked back over to where his coat hung near the door. "If I'm supposed to be ready at eight for God-knows-what, then I'll be needing my beauty sleep, thank you," she explained briskly, taking his coat from the hook.

He took it from her, mouth half-open to protest, but he thought better of it and pressed his lips together.

"You weren't joking about having done with orders."

She looked up at him then, grateful. Grateful that he'd been listening. Hoping this good will between them would see them through what was to come.

"Not at all," she replied.


	4. Chapter 4

The clouds were heavy and dark when John came around for Molly in Mike Stamford's tiny car. John was sweet, kissing her hello, opening doors for her, but as they drove off in a southerly direction, their impatience hovered in the air between them.

Over an hour of relative silence later, she still had no idea where they were going, and she was beginning to suspect that John didn't know either. They had initially headed off toward Brighton, but had turned off the main road about twenty minutes ago, and now John seemed to be steering them directly into the path of a rather angry-looking storm. As they reached the outer rim of it, fat raindrops began pelting the little car.

"You're sure it's this way?" she asked again.

"Molly." It was a warning. Apparently asking three times was his limit. The rain began beating down on the car in earnest. The water was sheeting down the windscreen, the wipers essentially useless.

They passed a muddy road on their right and John swore. He braked, and the poor vehicle skidded a bit. John reversed and then turned with a lurch onto the road he had missed.

"Nearly there," he said cheerfully.

Nearly _where_? she thought. They could barely see the road in front of them, but Molly was biting her tongue. But when the car seemed to careen off the road into the mud and came to an abrupt halt, she felt justified in yelling. "John!"

He was incongruously calm. "Here we are," he said, popping out of the car, the wind ushering in a bucketful of rain in the short time his door was open. He came around for her, grabbing their bags from the back seat as he helped her out.

Molly's feet landed in thick, ankle-deep mud.

He was tugging her along, and when she looked up (rather than down at her ruined shoes) she saw where he was headed. An enormous Weeping Wych elm stood brave against the storm, and next to it, a cottage of some sort, one level, with a front porch. It was rather small and deserted looking, but the roof looked decent, and honestly that was all she cared about at the moment.

By the time they reached the front porch she was soaked through and shivering.

They left their shoes outside and then burst through the door, John shutting it forcefully behind them.

Molly glared up at him through the curtain of her sopping hair, looking about as happy as a wet cat.

"Er," John began, realizing she was less than pleased. "Why don't you change, and I'll-" he looked around the sitting room. "I'll make a fire," he suggested.

Molly said nothing, grabbed her bag, and sloshed towards a door off to the right that appeared to be a bathroom.

John peeled off his dripping coat and hung it on the front door knob, ran his hands over his face to wipe the rain from his eyes, and headed over to the fireplace. He really hoped the chimney was safe. He checked the flue and pulled kindling from the bucket on the hearth.

Molly hung her sodden clothes over the side of the bath tub, and after toweling off as best she could, pulled on a thick burgundy jumper, jeans, and two pairs of socks. The tangle of nerves tightened in her gut, and she looked in the mirror above the sink.

Fear. You are full of fear, Molly Hooper.

She sighed. Shuddered. Looked again.

Better.

She clipped her hair up in a messy twist and left the bathroom to face John.

He was standing by the fireplace with his back to her, the now roaring flames already beginning to dry his jeans. A small sofa faced the hearth, and she dropped her bag next to it. He turned to look at her, saying nothing, but his expectant face made it clear. He was done waiting.

"Figure we're safe?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Tell me," he said gently. "Everything."

She let out the breath she was holding. Her voice wavered, but stayed strong. "Sherlock's alive."

She didn't know what she expected him to do-yell, cry, deny it, go into shock-but what he actually did was close his eyes.

She let the moments stretch out, but he remained perfectly still.

"John?" she ventured softly.

His lips pursed, his eyes still shut tight.

"I _knew_ it," he whispered.

He opened his eyes then and blinked at her, and suddenly, his breath seemed to leave him and he was gasping.

Molly hurried over and eased him onto the sofa.

"I mean, I suspected," he said raggedly. "Since yesterday, yesterday morning," he clarified.

Only since yesterday? she thought. Oh, this was going to get so much worse. And she only had a few moments before he started asking questions.

"How about some rum?" she asked shakily, bending near him to rummage in her bag.

"What?" he asked, confusion clouding over the relief in his face.

She handed him a large flask. "I find rum helpful in situations like this," she explained.

"Okay," he said, still confused, but taking a swig anyway. He handed it back to her, and she took a long pull off it that would have been worthy of a raised eyebrow had John been looking. She set it back in the bag and then sat at the edge of the sofa, opposite him. His breathing slowed.

She had decided the night before, lying in her bed, not sleeping, that when she told him, she would tell him all of it, and not make excuses, not ask for forgiveness until much, much later.

"You must have questions. And I promise to tell you everything I know," she began.

"Are you . . . are you sure-_quite_ sure-he's alive?" he asked softly, his voice breaking in the middle.

She nodded.

"How . . . how do you know? He . . . " John faltered, squeezing his eyes shut again. "I took his pulse! I saw . . ." He was speaking mostly to himself, shaking his head again.

"You saw exactly what Sherlock wanted you to see," Molly explained. "He faked his death, John. Deliberately."

It all sounded so much more horrible out loud, but there was no holding back now. "He came to me the night before and asked me to help him."

"Help him?" John echoed, looking up at her then. He was sounding confused more than anything, and she realized he wasn't yet fully comprehending what had been done to him.

"He asked me to manage what happened inside the hospital after he jumped," Molly began, purposely using 'jumped' rather than 'fell'.

"And to maintain a certain timeline, to provide a hiding place, and help him escape when the moment came." She was rushing it too much, but she saw his eyes widening and she had to get it all out before he exploded.

"And I agreed. I helped him. And he asked me-" Demanded, actually, she thought, but this conversation wasn't about her. "-not to tell anyone. So I didn't."

John's breathing was ratcheting up again, and she nearly blurted out the rest of it.

"I know he's alive because afterwards I helped him, I hid him until it was safe for him to leave. I gave him money and a sandwich and then he disappeared. He's called me twice since then but he never tells me where he is," she finished.

John was shaking his head as if rattling his brains might make all the pieces fit together.

"Sherlock. Faked his death. On purpose." The strength was returning to his voice.

Molly nodded gently.

"You helped him."

Nod.

"He's alive."

Nod. She wouldn't say the next part for him; she deserved whatever was about to happen.

Now his words sounded as smooth and strong as steel. "And you have. Both. Been lying to me."

She took in his lethally calm voice, the tightening of his jaw, the way he wouldn't break their gaze, and she made herself nod.

He blinked. He took one deep breath. He was trying to calm down, and Molly fought the urge to tell him to be angry, to tell him to yell at her. But then, the dam burst, and later, much later, she would be reminded of a quote about not meddling in the affairs of dragons.

John tried willing his heartbeat to slow, to calm himself, but in doing so, was struck so painfully by the fact that Sherlock had undoubtedly slowed his own heart in order to fool him that he felt his pulse skyrocket in response.

Fuck it. Fuck them both. Fuck it all.

He was up from the sofa and pacing before he knew it, his body propelling itself with anger.

"Seven weeks," he muttered. But that wasn't nearly good enough.

"SEVEN WEEKS!" he roared, and, yes, that worked, and when he glanced at Molly she was, unexpectedly, not cringing, not crying.

His came around and stood behind the spot he'd recently vaulted from, and gripped the back of the sofa tightly.

"Seven weeks of my life, moping like an _idiot_, going through life like a fucking _robot_," he spat out. "And everyone dripping with pity, tut-tutting about me when they thought I couldn't hear." His face twisted in contempt. "Seven weeks of wondering how I was supposed to put my life back together, my fucking _soul_ back together," he growled, and pushed off from the soda. He set off pacing again, and she said nothing.

"Jesus, seven weeks of talking to his stupid, goddamned grave, as though he could hear me-"

He froze. His back to Molly, he clenched his fists at his sides.

"Who's watching us, Molly?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," she answered without hesitation. He turned to face her.

"Is Sherlock watching us? Is he witnessing everything? Listening? And just . . ." He paused, finding only hopelessly inadequate words. "Just _letting_ it . . . all . . . continue?" he asked, his voice losing its force.

"I don't know how much he knows. He never told me any details about what he planned to do after-afterwards. But he's getting information somehow. The first time he called me, about four weeks ago, he must have known I was in a place where I could talk, on my break in the park. And the second time he called me-" How she wanted to save those details for later, but she continued, "-he seemed to know exactly where I was and what I had been doing. That's who was on the phone last night, John. It was Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" John was trying to remember Molly's side of the conversation.

"He was . . . reminding me not to tell you anything."

A corner of his mouth pulled upwards. "And you told him to go to hell."

"Well. Yes." She was still surprised at herself for defying Sherlock so completely.

John pressed his lips together and nodded. "Good."

There was still more for him to know, and she waited patiently for him to speak again. He opened his mouth but only let out a huff, and then moved to sit back on the sofa wearily. He slumped back, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

"Can you just-I mean, what possible reason could there be behind all this?" John asked, his hand flailing in front of him.

"He told me very little. He said that Moriarty was targeting you, and he wouldn't stop unless he believed Sherlock was dead. He said that he would fake his death and then be able to hunt down Moriarty and his people more easily. I think he said 'remove the threats' but it was pretty clear what he meant by that," Molly explained, tipping her head to one side and raising one brow. "I thought, since Moriarty had died, that Sherlock could be done with the whole charade. But afterwards, when I was helping him recover, he said that Moriarty had arranged things so that even if Moriarty died, there would still be a threat against you," Molly told him, still amazed at the level of Jim's obsession with tormenting Sherlock.

John clearly felt the same way, the horror creasing around his eyes.

"But not just you," Molly continued, and John lifted his chin, knitting his brows in surprise. "Lestrade, too. And Mrs. Hudson."

"What?" he gasped. "Mrs.-; and Greg?"

"Three assassins. Three targets. All of you would die if Sherlock didn't."

"Oh my God," John breathed. It explained why Sherlock had jumped, why he had been 'confessing' to John that he was a fraud. He needed Moriarty's deceptions to work in order to keep them all safe.

"Oh my God," he repeated, sinking his face into his hands, fingers moving over his scalp as he clasped the back of his neck. He had never bought that Sherlock was a fraud, not for a second, but he had also never understood why Sherlock tried to convince him otherwise. Not until this moment.

"And you think-Sherlock thinks-they're still watching us?" John asked, looking up at her.

"That's what he said that night, before he left. He said that the assassins would have had orders to keep an eye on us, regardless of what happened on the roof, just to be sure. That Moriarty wouldn't have put it past Sherlock to fake his death. He told me we would all be watched-you, Greg, me, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft. Anyone important to him. And that he couldn't afford to give himself away, to give them any hints that he was alive."

When he replied, his voice was soft. "Why didn't he tell me? I could have helped him."

She had so many things she wanted to say, but she kept to the facts. "He said you were a terrible liar. That he needed your grief to be convincing. In order to protect you."

John's face twisted into an ugly scowl, and Molly couldn't stop herself from recoiling as he burst up from the sofa towards her.

"He-"

John was shaking.

"The complete, utter-"

His features fought over which emotion to give expression to. He let out an anguished groan, then wheeled around and strode to the door, ripping it open and stepping out onto the porch.

Molly followed him, closing the door behind her to keep out the rain and wind. John, his swearing barely audible, was pulling on his shoes. Without even glancing at her, he took off down the steps and pounded through the mud towards the huge elm tree.

She stood at the short end of the porch and just watched John Watson attack.

As he kicked at the massive trunk of the god damned tree, John shouted an unending string of abuse into the sounds of the storm raging around him. The complex web of branches and ruffled leaves protected him from much of the rain, but nothing stopped his brain, his heart. The emotions cycled through him, ebbing and flowing, but recursive and ceaseless, waves hurtling him from anger to relief to shame and self-pity, and back to anger again.

He would feel like he was just starting to get a hold of himself when it would knock him flat again, and he threw himself against the trunk with renewed vigor.

Molly watched. She hugged herself against the rain, held herself from going after him, and watched. A few times it seemed like he might stop, might be done, but then his feet would find the bark again. Though his words were unintelligible, she heard his voice cracking and becoming hoarse.

In the end, she had no idea how long he had been out there. When he slumped down, back against the tree, he looked like a marionette with its strings cut, limbs limp and head hanging low.

She waited. She waited longer than she wanted to. But he did, finally, seem to have spent himself. She pulled on her own shoes and made her way to him, and he did not resist as she helped him up.

He was silent as she helped him peel off his filthy wet clothes in the bathroom, as she peeled off her own.

She was silent as she moved them both under the welcome stream of hot water, rinsing them of the pervading mud and warming their skin.

He stood still, letting her wash him chastely, efficiently, letting her wrap him in a towel that matched her own and lead him out to the living room.

She stoked the fire. She pulled quilts from the bed and made a nest for them on the sofa, and they burrowed under them together. She encircled him in her arms as they lay still and said nothing for long while.

Molly knew things. Things people expected her to know, like how a body looks when it's fallen three stories, or how to run a full chem panel, or how to care for kittens. But also things that no one expected her to know. Like what Sherlock looks like when he's sad. Or how to take down a man twice her size. Or that sex can be about so many other things than love; and that it hardly ever is only about love.

And what Molly knew at this moment was that John Watson was about to forgive her.

His head shifted a little, the left side of his face pressed half against her towel, half on the skin below her collarbone. Everything felt warm now, the both of them dry and clean under the quilts in front of the fire.

"Is that-all of it, then?" he asked softly.

"Everything I know," she answered, her voice equally soft, and she kept her hands still where they were on the bare skin of his back.

And John exhaled his relief, his gratitude against her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut and she bent her head towards him involuntarily at the sensation.

He moved to prop himself up a little, and when she opened her eyes he was staring at her, his face only inches above hers. The air changed between them in those long seconds. She became newly aware of how his body lay upon her, their towels loosened and rucked up, one of his legs between hers, the weight of him, and her skin began humming its response.

His nearly navy blue eyes asked a not entirely unexpected question, his gaze steady.

So many reasons. Forgiveness. Gratitude. Solace. Reassurance.

She kept her eyes on his and she shifted slowly, deliberately beneath him, her body an answering wave against his.

His hesitation vaporized, and his mouth found hers. Her hands slid down his back, finding the edge of his towel and tugging, and he lifted so she could pull it away. His hands were softer than she expected, smooth and warm on her skin, but also decisive, and as one moved up to tangle in her still-damp hair, the other was freeing her, letting her own towel fall where it may.

Molly felt like liquid. Like molten muscle. He was somehow everywhere at once, steady and inevitable, and not in a hurry at all. She gave. She yielded. She took. She pulled long kisses from his lips and she pressed his mouth to her wherever she wanted him. He let her. He encouraged her. He read her movements and sighs, studied and learned her until he had her at the edge.

He paused, and she knew why, and she didn't care what he might think of her when she produced a condom from her bag that still lay on the floor near the sofa.

When he pressed into her, she felt overwhelming, satisfying relief, as though the complete forgiveness that she was craving from him were tangibly, physically expressed, and she tensed her muscles around him inside her. She wanted to echo his gratitude with her own, and soon he was at the edge with her, each squeeze, each slide, coiling them both more tightly.

They fell together, melting into each other.

John knew things too. How to heal. How to kill. He knew that whenever he saw Sherlock again he was going to beat the crap out of him and then handcuff him to his armchair in 221b for the rest of his life. And he knew that whatever he and Molly said in the next few minutes would likely set the tone for the rest of their relationship.

But he didn't know she would take the lead.

"Hmm," she hummed against the top of his head.

"Yes?" he answered, lifting his eyes to hers bravely.

"We seem to be getting to know each other better," she joked softly.

He dropped his head back down. "Just a bit," he mumbled against her skin, and then deliberately nuzzled into her neck.

"Oh," she sighed, instantly melting again. "Deduced that right away, didn't you?" she half-whispered, and he smiled against her easily. And it surprised him again, how easy it was, to be with her, to forgive her.

"Why didn't I know you before?" he asked, tucking into her neck again.

"Oh, why would you?" Molly said without accusation. "Who sees the stars when the sun's out? And Sherlock's always been the bloody sun," she explained somewhat wistfully.

Impossible to argue against that, John thought, smiling against her skin again.

After a moment, she cleared her throat gently and he raised his head to meet her eyes. She shifted just a little beneath him, yet he just lifted his eyebrows at her.

"Wouldn't it be great if there were a towel nearby?" she asked with mock sincerity, since he didn't seem to be getting the hint.

He grinned up at her. "Yes, that would be brilliant. Marvelous," he answered. He frowned and shook his head. "Too bad there isn't one around."

She batted at his head with a free hand, and he laughed, ducking away and reaching down for her discarded towel. He placed it at her chest.

"Thank you," she said. It seemed to trigger something in him, and his face was suddenly earnest.

"Thank you," he repeated, and she didn't pretend not to understand. She nodded, and he leaned forward for a kiss.

He moved away and they both tidied up, the towels landing in a heap on the floor. Molly tucked one quilt around her beneath her arms and then looked the room over, as though surveying the damage.

"John, where _are_ we?"

"Ah. Near Brighton," he offered.

"Whose house is this?" she asked, her brows pinched together.

"Well. That's a good-that's an excellent question." He paused. "I have no idea."

She half-laughed, half-gasped. "What?"

"Well, I didn't-I needed somewhere safe, and Christine assured me no one could find us here," he half-explained.

"Christine?"

"Yes."

She continued looking at him.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, ah, Christine. Of the, um, homeless network."

Molly's eyes widened.

"Look, it's not as if I had a lot of time to come up with this plan!" he defended.

She was laughing at him, and he started laughing, too, but after a moment, Molly was sobering.

"Aren't we a pair of criminal masterminds," she said sadly, dabbing at her eyes with her index finger.

John realized how much they were not. "Yeah," he said softly.

"What-I mean, how do we, you, I mean-" Molly stuttered about and then huffed out a breath. "What's next?" she asked plainly.

"Another good question."

She waited for him to continue.

"I don't know about you," he began, "but I have to find him."

She nodded.

"And throttle him."

She smiled a little at that.

"And then, help him. With-whatever mad plan he has."

Of course, she thought. "I want to help," she nearly blurted.

John sat still for a moment. "It could be dangerous. It _will_ be," he corrected. He needed to be clear with her about that.

Molly had considered this. "Well. I'm a little more prepared for danger than I used to be," she reminded him. "But I don't want to get in your way," she added sincerely.

"No, actually," John responded, "I think, if you're willing, you could actually make all of this much easier."

Molly nodded. "What's the plan?"

John's face scrunched together, folding in on itself, eyes closing. He gritted his teeth and looked up at her.

"We have to talk to Mycroft."

The rain continued its steady pounding, but the wind had died down. Molly was astounded at the mess they'd managed to make in such a short amount of time. It took them much longer to clean it up than to make it, and by the time they'd finished, they were starving.

Clean, damp towels and clothes hung on improvised drying racks around the fire, and they sat on the floor in front of the hearth with the food John had bought ranged around them, along with Molly's rum. John had sharpened sticks from off of the great tree and skewered sausages onto them to roast in the fire. At one point he stabbed a large chunk of cheese and turned it round slowly in the flames until it was warm and soft and they could spread it on their bread, and Molly thought she had never had a more satisfying meal in her life.

In fact, sitting there with John, full of cheese and bread and purpose, Molly felt amazing.

She felt ready.


	5. Chapter 5

"Nervous?" John asked, watching Molly straighten the hem of her blouse for the fifth time.

"No," she squeaked.

John raised an eyebrow.

She waggled her head. "Okay, a bit."

"What's the worst that could happen?" John attempted, but Molly just stared at him.

"Right," John said, setting his jaw. The worst could be very bad indeed.

The Diogenes Club was as silent and imposing as it had been the last time John had visited, when he had confronted the elder Holmes for his part in Moriarty's campaign against Sherlock. While John believed that Mycroft had not intended to provide ammunition against his brother, he had a hard time believing Mycroft could not have foreseen what happened, that he hadn't thought to warn Sherlock. Although, to be fair, Sherlock most likely would not have listened.

John had no interest in being fair.

John placed his hand at the small of Molly's back as they were led (quietly) to a private room, the attendant closing the heavy doors behind them.

And there Mycroft stood, one forearm leaning against the mantel of the fireplace, as calm and unreadable as ever.

"Mycroft," John greeted tersely.

"Hello, John. Miss Hooper. Delightful to see you both," he replied, voice as smooth as glass and yet serpentine. He took a step forward and waved an arm towards the sitting area. "Won't you sit down?"

John looked over to see the dark leather loveseat set opposite its matching armchair, an occasional table between them set with a low arrangement of fresh, odd-looking, bright blue flowers.

John thought, of course. He knew we were coming. And he knows what we've been up to. The loveseat made it beyond obvious. He gritted his teeth, but moved forward to sit, Molly tucking herself beside him.

"Tea?" Mycroft asked before sitting.

"We won't be here that long," John answered firmly, and Mycroft continued settling into his armchair.

"Ah," was all he said, but John could read multitudes in that one syllable. _So, you have not yet forgiven me, John. I suppose I didn't expect you to. I did hope._

John was working on sending a few telepathic messages of his own, and he looked towards the corners of the room, carefully, without moving his head. It was unlikely that any cameras in this room would be so easily visible-these people were professionals, after all-but Mycroft received the message.

"You may speak freely here, of course," he offered, but something about his tone felt off to John, seemed in fact to be conveying exactly the opposite of his words, and then he saw. Mycroft's hand rested on his thigh, and his index finger made the slightest moment towards the flowers on the table.

Right, then. Probably not video, but audio for sure.

"You may know that Molly and I have been seeing each other," John began, and he reached a hand over towards her without looking. She took it easily in her own, keeping her own gaze on Mycroft as well.

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond.

"It's not necessary for you to comment," John added.

Mycroft simply continued looking pleasantly bored.

"As you know, she has always been a great friend to Sherlock," John said, and he put everything he could into his eyes. _I know what she did for him. And I know you do too._

"But now, Molly has reached out to me, trusted me, when no one else had the courage or . . . the _faith_ in me to do so. She deserves everything I can give her. More."

Mycroft waited for John to define "more."

"What I'd like, no, what would be only fair, is for Molly to have time away. Away from the daily demands, away from the place that holds so many painful memories for her. I owe her that."

Mycroft waited.

"_You_ owe her that."

John silently prayed, screamed that Mycroft would understand. He and Molly had crafted the phrasing so carefully, sitting by the fire-what would still sound like John, but convey what needed to be conveyed? Only Mycroft had a chance of deciphering it.

"I can see that you are quite devoted," he responded smoothly, and the double meanings shot through to John, who had learned a little something about speaking Mycroftese. Mycroft had no doubt that John would blunder around the world, attempting to find Sherlock on his own if Mycroft didn't help him.

"And I do wish that we could all 'move on,' as they say," he continued. "Sometimes, however, even a change of scenery won't do the trick," he warned carefully, and John understood. No promises. "However, we all deserve some respite," he said, allowing the merest hint of sympathy to glide over his features as he looked at John.

He turned his gaze to Molly, his eyes softening just a little. "You have always been incredibly kind and accommodating to Sherlock. To all of us. I hope you'll allow me to express my gratitude," he said smoothly.

"I don't require payment for being kind to Sherlock," she said, smiling at him sympathetically, for although everyone in the room was aware of the charade, she felt Mycroft suffered more than he let on; loving Sherlock, worrying about him, bonded them all.

"Certainly not," Mycroft said softly. "Yet I feel moved to express my thanks tangibly," he added, the last word crisp and deliberate.

Molly nodded and smiled, and John was very quiet. Mycroft's gaze returned to John's face, and John didn't imagine for a moment that he could hide much from him. So for the briefest of moments, he let his feelings escape onto his features. Relief. Gratitude. The beginnings of forgiveness.

"Thank you," said Molly for him, and John nodded, his lips pressed together tightly.

In a bit of daze from the meeting with Mycroft, they returned to 221b without either of them quite realizing that they might have other options of where and how to spend the night.

Molly poured wine as John reheated leftovers and they settled onto the sofa, Molly snuggling comfortably up to him once they finished eating.

His arm wound around her shoulders.

"Shouldn't this be harder?" he asked.

"What?" She murmured. "Dinner?"

"This," he said vaguely. It would have driven Sherlock mad, but Molly translated it well enough. This relationship. This unexpected, not-true-love-yet-also-not-a-charade-thing between them.

"It is what it is. And I'm learning to take things as they come." She looked up at his face, the twilight very becoming to him. "Especially good things," she finished, burying her face against his chest again, and he stopped worrying about it.

"Stay?" he asked softly.

"Mmm." She nodded against his shirt.

She borrowed one of his t-shirts and pair of drawstring pajama bottoms, and a bit of mindless telly later they were stealing kisses with increasing frequency and advancing to adolescent petting over clothes. Somehow someone ended up in someone else's lap, and now there was very little interest in television and entirely too much fumbling with clothing.

"Upstairs," Molly declared. "In an actual bed. Like actual adults," she added, finally managing to get her hand where she'd wanted it.

"Mmph," agreed John.

Molly found this time to be freer, less fraught with uncertainty, less weighed down by gratitude or guilt. John felt it, too, she sensed. He was being funny, self-deprecating almost, but also an absolute tease, bringing her close and easing off more times than was fair.

"Enough of that," she said gently, but then rolled him over onto his back decisively.

His grin was full of delight as she settled herself astride him and took over.

Afterwards, he curled around her, their bodies layered together as they had ended up that first night in his bed, and she marveled at all of it, the three of them tangled together in her mind, Sherlock always near them, around them, between them.

Sherlock jumped from the rocky brown cliff and was flying, arms spread wide. John watched him from the sandy floor, wearing his desert camouflage and holding his gun up to his ear like a phone. Sherlock landed near him face first, then rolled to his side and spluttered to expel the sand from his mouth. Molly, dressed in maroon scrubs, knelt down next to Sherlock and started cutting his hair with sharp, surgical scissors, the blades shining in the harsh sunlight, the black curls falling to the sand and blowing away into the desert. Sherlock was talking, but John couldn't hear him. Ocean waves nearby were crashing and crashing against the sand, and he couldn't hear. Sherlock looked up at him, talking, talking, but all John could hear was the wind and the water.

Wait.

Something else.

Someone was singing.

Molly was singing.

"A hundred billion bottles . . ."

Why was Molly singing?

"Seems I'm not alone in being alone . . . "

John stirred. Opened his eyes.

She was tucked up along the far edge of the bed, watching his face. Her eyes shone in the dark of the room.

"There you are," she said softly.

"You were singing," he whispered sleepily. "I thought I dreamt it."

"I think you were having a nightmare," she answered softly.

He winced. She moved closer to him.

"It's okay." She reached out a hand and swept it over his cheek. "I wasn't sure if I should wake you. The singing seemed to help," she explained, hoping he wouldn't be embarrassed.

"What did you sing?" he asked quietly as she moved her hand to rest against his chest.

She smiled sheepishly. "Well, I started with some Duran Duran, but that wasn't working at all for you," she said softly. "So I switched to The Police, and that seemed better."

He smiled a little. "I like The Police," he said simply, because he was very sleepy now and it seemed like a nice thing to say. His eyes closed again.

John found himself standing in the sitting room between their two armchairs, staring at the skull on the mantel.

Billy.

Sherlock had named it. But in the weeks after Sherlock's funeral, John had taken to having silent conversations with it, feeling an odd connection between them because of the status he shared with it.

When John had first come to see the flat, Sherlock had called the skull his "friend," possibly jokingly, but much later, in Baskerville, Sherlock declared John his only friend.

Pondering this in his bare feet as the morning sun began working its way in through the windows, John wondered how one qualified to be a friend in Sherlock Holmes' eyes.

Certainly, he had people in his life who believed in him, were devoted to him, helped him. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson.

But they didn't merit the title of friend, for some reason, and John did. He got drugged, lied to, abducted repeatedly, strapped to explosives, driven to tears of exasperation, and he got the special designation of friend.

But so, once upon a time, had Billy.

He had a wild thought to bring Billy with them, just pack the skull right along with his socks, his toothbrush. Give it to Sherlock as a symbol. Of something.

Wouldn't make it through one airport security checkpoint with it, probably. Imagining the look on the airport agent's face as they x-rayed his luggage made him chuckle.

"What's so funny?" Molly asked quietly, having made her way downstairs.

"Oh. Private joke," John quipped, indicating Billy with his chin, but then winking at her.

"Mmm," she said. "Say no more."

She reached out to him for a hug. She was still warm from sleep, and John felt his thoughts ease a bit as he sank into the contact.

"Morning," she mumbled into his neck.

"Morning," he answered, his hands moving slowly up and down her back.

"Breakfast?" she asked.

"Ah. No."

She looked up at him.

"_Someone_ cleaned the kitchen, and the cupboards are rather bare," he teased.

She frowned. Apparently, Molly didn't have much of a sense of humor about breakfast.

"But-" He held up one finger. "But I will go fetch us something amazing," he said appeasingly.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Here," he began, shepherding her into his armchair. "You sit here, and, uh-"

He pulled the grey blanket from the back of the chair and shook it to unfold it, settling it around her until only her face showed beneath it.

"Stay warm. And I'll be back before you know it."

She gave him a smile for that. "Alright."

Mycroft's personal assistant appeared outside 221b, stealthy as ever, stepping out of the sleek black car just as John was returning from the café with a bag of pastries and two takeaway cups.

"Good morning, Anthea," he greeted cautiously, wondering if this was to be an abduction. He always called her Anthea. It was the name she'd chosen to give him the first time Mycroft had sent her to "fetch" John, nearly two years ago now, and he'd become attached to it despite her admission that it was not her real name. She was beautiful, aloof, neutral and efficient, all of which made her ridiculously attractive, of course, but what John had come to admire most about her was her loyalty.

Anthea glanced up from her ever-present Blackberry and gave John a once over, pausing at his eyes. He noted a rare hint of approval on her features.

"Your itinerary," she said simply, handing him a large envelope. He juggled the bag and the coffees and ended up with the envelope tucked under his arm.

The weight of it felt excessive, and though he knew better than to expect explanations from the taciturn PA, John always enjoyed their little non-talks.

"Seems heavy," he said.

"Yes," was all she said, eyes glued to the screen in her hand. Like her employer, Anthea knew something about how to load one little word with meaning, her sarcastic but silent "well spotted" hanging in the air between them.

John pushed it, just to see what she might say next. "Has he ever done this for you? Given you a trip? Some kind of thanks?" he asked.

"Hmm?" she asked, pretending she hadn't very well heard what he'd just asked her.

"Does he thank you?" John repeated, realizing too late that it sounded somewhat lecherous.

She raised an enigmatic eyebrow and, in the tone one might use with a dim child, responded, "He _pays_ me."

"Right." John smiled a bit to himself. "Well, um, thanks."

"Bon voyage, doctor," she replied, and then she was disappearing elegantly into the car. Well, at least she wasn't pretending not to know who he was. That was nice.

The car pulled away from the curb, and John went up the steps to the front door, managing the knob somewhat inelegantly and kicking the door shut behind him.

As he went up the stairs, he ruminated on the women in his life-Anthea, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, Harry-how each of them shone brightly on her own, how each of them influenced him. Molly had an excellent point. Sherlock was the bloody sun, nearly bleaching them all out. He hadn't been looking properly at the stars.

He reached the kitchen to find Molly smiling up at him from her seat at the table. She'd managed to find napkins and two clean plates.

He looked at her.

He was struck again by how little he had known her before, and how much he had come to learn about her. She was so incredibly direct with him, so willing to commit to this admittedly risky and entirely emotional endeavor just to satisfy his need to see Sherlock.

"What?" she asked after he continued staring.

John smiled. "You're a star."

She blushed immediately. "Yes, alright," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm a star. You too."

He kissed her soundly on the cheek and she smiled back at him as he deposited everything he was carrying onto the table. They divvied up coffees and gigantic warm cinnamon rolls and ate in silence for a bit.

Molly gestured with sticky fingers to the envelope between them.

"Ah. Mycroft's tangible thanks."

Her eyebrows shot up. "May I?"

He nodded. "Yes, of course."

She wiped her fingers on the napkin and took the envelope.

"I wonder where he's sending us off to," John mused. "Paris," he guessed.

"Monte Carlo," Molly said, opening it and starting to pull out the contents.

"Timbuktu," John joked. But then he saw the reason the envelope had been so heavy.

Molly's eyes went wide and her jaw popped open.

"John!" she cried softly at the stacks of cash piled on the table.

"That's. That's . . ." John trailed off.

"Tangible?" Molly offered.

"I'd say so," John answered.

She pulled out the rest of the contents-plane tickets, her somehow renewed passport, a neatly printed itinerary.

"Holy Christ on a cracker," she breathed.

John looked up at her. She simply turned the page towards him.

Florence.

Cozumel.

Hong Kong.

Shiraz.

Nice.

He blinked. Shook his head.

Well, that would be one way to do it. It certainly gave Sherlock plenty of chances to contact them. By the lift of her eyebrow, the tilt of her head, John could see Molly thinking the same thing, but what she said was, "We need to go shopping."

He laughed. "I think that could be arranged," he said, with a gesture towards the pile of money on the table.

The day of their departure came, and John was only a little surprised that their flight was not a commercial jet, but rather, a private plane.

They were tucked into the small but luxurious jet as the only passengers and offered fruit and drink, and, really, it was no surprise at all that Mycroft strode into the cabin a few minutes later.

He was frowning, and John stood, Molly rising from her seat as well.

Mycroft began, "We don't have much time. This plane is clean; one pilot, one crewman, both in my employ. However, I cannot vouch for any other venue along your journey."

"Understood." John hung on his every syllable.

"Sherlock knows your itinerary. He will choose when and where to contact you."

John was less than thrilled with that plan, but he would take whatever he could get. To even hear Mycroft talk about Sherlock in the present tense sent a jolt of anticipation through him.

Mycroft showed him four photos. "These people work for me. One will be in each location, in case you should need assistance. Each has been in place for more than a year." And John felt more sure all the time that Mycroft had a man in every city in the world. Mycroft continued, "Each will respond to the name 'Gladstone'."

"Like trained dogs?"

Mycroft's expression seemed to equate talking with John to a case of indigestion. "Not unlike trained dogs, but certainly more resourceful and discreet. I have instructed them _not_ to follow you or Miss Hooper unless you specifically request them to."

"Because Sherlock would never approach us if we were being followed," Molly said.

"Precisely."

"So," John stated, summing up. "He won't call. He won't warn us. He'll just show up."

Mycroft shrugged, just the slightest movement of his shoulders. "Or he won't."

"Then I'll really kill him," John said under his breath, without thinking.

Mycroft's posture stiffened. "Sherlock is many things. What he is _not_, is a coward. If he doesn't meet you, it's because he won't endanger your lives."

It was the closest thing to a declaration of brotherly love that Mycroft had ever said out loud, defending Sherlock's honor, and John forgave him a little more, Mycroft earning his redemption incrementally.

"I'm going to tell him you said that," John said, and he meant to.

Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He straightened his already impressive posture and regarded the both of them.

"I must emphasize the importance of discretion; no one can suspect that you are anything other than happy lovebirds flitting from one romantic escapade to the next."

"Of course," answered Molly, and John wanted to kiss her right then for being so incredibly on board, but he settled for throwing her a grin.

"Good luck, John," Mycroft said, offering his hand.

This time, John took it. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Ironically, now that they were free to discuss anything at all, they found they didn't have much to say.

"Do you know what you'll say to him?" Molly asked after John had gone quiet for a while.

"No." He shook his head. "Yes."

She just looked at him.

He tried again. "Sometimes, in my head, I have a whole speech ready to go. You know. 'How could you? You're an idiot.'" He sighed. "Sometimes I just punch him, a good one right to the chin, because he's looking at me like he can't imagine why I'd be angry."

He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "You?"

"I mostly imagine both of you being idiots about it and eventually crying and hugging," she replied.

His brow furrowed at her in doubt.

"Seriously," she said.

"This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about?" he joked.

"Yes," she said, rolling her eyes a bit.

"No. Nope. Not much of a hugger," John said, shaking his head at her. "He'll probably criticize me for being overly dramatic and then order me to make him some tea," he theorized.

Molly doubted that very much, but she let it go.


	6. Chapter 6

Neither John nor Molly had been to Tuscany before, and though Florence was its stunning, romantic, enthralling self, the city utterly failed to quell the restless anxiety that thrummed constantly inside them both.

At every trattoria, every museum, the knowledge that Sherlock could pop up at any moment eroded any enjoyment or tranquility they might have otherwise found. Above all else, John feared their reunion might be public and short, a few moments when nothing of substance could be said, when they would all have to control their reactions.

Every waiter, every museum guard, every souvenir peddler, John scanned for elegant fingers and piercing eyes.

One afternoon, eating gelato and strolling about the Piazza della Signoria like good little tourists, Molly felt John tense beside her. He continued strolling, and his face was pleasant, but his white-knuckled grip on her hand said everything. She carefully looked around them.

A tall, thin man had his back to them as he stood near the fountain of Neptune, one hand on his hip as he faced the marble horses emerging from the water. The white suit nearly shone in the midday sun, and he fanned himself with his matching white fedora, his hair a mop of shiny black curls.

It couldn't be him. It was too obvious, like a declaration, drawing entirely too much attention. And yet, Molly found herself daring to hope, and she knew from John's tightening fingers that he felt the same.

But the man placed the hat on his head, turned, and it wasn't him, of course, it wasn't, it couldn't be him.

Molly felt her face flush, and she turned away from the fountain, letting go of John's hand.

John felt like an idiot. An idiot with a stupid ice cream cone and stinging eyes, falling into the trap of ridiculous, merciless hope.

They walked back to the hotel without talking. By the time they'd reached it, the daily afternoon rainclouds had gathered above.

Sometimes it was easy to be with John; he followed Molly's lead or took over when she wanted him to.

Sometimes he would curl up around her and be so gentle, she could feel the gratitude emanating from him, and she would shift them into something less gentle, more urgent, because, honestly, the gratitude made her uncomfortable. She had done the best she could in an impossible situation, but Sherlock and John still had reason to be upset with her, and she wasn't entirely selfless. She was assuaging her guilt, acting as a catalyst, indulging her intuition, and John let her.

But sometimes, John broke. He'd become very quiet, very still, and his anger, his frustration, would hit him like an avalanche.

Back up in the relative safety of their room, John strode through the sitting room of the suite into the bedroom. He left the door open, so Molly followed.

He had opened the French doors out to the balcony and stood facing outward as the first rain drops darkened the stone. Without looking at her, he asked, "Did he kiss you?"

She blinked at him a bit. Who? Sherlock? Never. Oh. Not Sherlock. Jim.

She cast about for why he would be asking, and realized he was still being cautious, providing an explanation for why he might look frustrated and angry to anyone who might be watching. Molly winced. The reunion with Sherlock couldn't come soon enough. They needed to end this ridiculous, painful charade.

"Yes," she answered.

John stepped out into the rain.

It was nothing like the storm and the tree from before; this rain was warm and lazy, and he was not attacking anything. But he set his hands to either side of him on the stone edge of the balcony, his shoulders bunching together as he hung his head.

". . . intolerable," John was muttering, but Molly was close enough to hear some of it. "Fucking unbearable."

And his voice cracked around the words, and he felt tears stinging in his eyes and he really, really wanted to kick something.

Molly could see his body coil up, with nothing around to release the spring.

Nothing but her. And she wanted to. Everyone thought she was made of pink fluff and kittens, and that was part of her, sure, but she had well-maintained dark side of her own, and she could use it. She could use it to help him. And, he may never believe it, but his dark side called to hers in ways no therapist would condone.

He seemed to decide something, to give up, and he turned around, face towards the room again. The cloud still hung above him, his anger and frustration as perceptible as the raindrops.

She walked over to him, stepping out onto the balcony and stopping in front of him.

"I don't need a hug," he pre-empted. A warning.

"No, you don't."

His arms stayed at his sides, and he wouldn't look at her.

So Molly really had no choice.

She shoved him. Hard.

He grunted in surprise and stepped towards her, his hands gripping her shoulders, and he glared at her.

And, once upon a time, that would have made her waver. But she needed this, as much as he needed it, and so she lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and took a deep breath through her nose. His eyes darted down and back up, and she knew he was close to understanding.

She tilted her head down, and then looked up at him, her face so much like the night he first kissed her, her hair loose, her eyes dark, but no smile, and the look this time wasn't kind or sweet or nice. It was determined. Predatory.

She saw her point spark to life in his eyes, just before he rushed at her.

One hand slid up to her neck, pulling her lips to his, one hand clamped to her lower back, pressing them together tightly.

The kisses were noisy, violent as they slid lips, tongues, teeth over each other. He nipped experimentally at her tongue, and she groaned, responding with a harder bite of her own and then he was maneuvering them backwards into the room.

No time, no time, she hiked up her skirt, stepped out of her underwear. He was devouring her neck and lifting her from the floor, depositing her on the edge of the mirrored vanity in their room. She raked her fingers over him, shoulders, back, sliding over jean-clad arse to the front of him, cupping and squeezing and pulling.

So ready, so fast; it was dizzying, and perfect.

His arm went up to her long, unbound hair and wound into it until he held the hank of it firmly in his grip and pulled, arching her neck backwards. His other hand scooped down into her low-necked shirt, dipped into her bra and uncovered her breast, rolling over the nipple with his thumb briefly before bringing his lips, his tongue, his teeth to it.

She undulated. He loosed his hand from her hair and pulled and pushed at her clothes again, unsheathing her other breast, sucking and nipping it into a taut redness to match its twin.

Molly was moaning above him, her hands migrating up to weave into his hair, keeping his mouth's attentions where they were. She heard him unbuckle his belt, registered that he must be unzipping his jeans, but her mind was awash with sensation.

Panting and ready, so ready, he managed to fish the condom from his wallet and then push his jeans and pants down to his thighs.

She pulled her shirt over her head and dispensed with her bra while he rolled on the condom, and then, finally, he pressed into her.

"Yes," she hissed, and her hands slid to his arse and clamped themselves there.

He withdrew almost completely, then pushed in again, as far as possible, and she sucked in her breath and sighed.

He set up a rhythm, moderately paced, long strokes, and then she added her own, clenching her muscled walls around his every time he retreated, making him groan and then grunt his way back into her.

He wasn't going to last long this way.

He felt her reach for one of his hands, guiding his fingers to her breast. She placed her thumb and index finger along his own and pressed them together around her nipple. He added his own pressure and she arched into the touch, biting her own lip.

Her hand fell away, back to its perch on his backside, and he grinned a little at her very clear orders.

His hands settled on her breasts, their rhythm established itself again, and then, as he pressed into her forcefully, he pinched both nipples at once.

She cried out softly, her body lifted toward him, and he felt her muscles tighten just a bit more around him.

Good, then. But not quite enough for her.

He pressed in again, and this time his pinches were harder, and something wonderful was happening inside her body.

"Yes," she growled, adjusting her legs around him, opening up to him, pressing him into her even more.

And it was all going to happen soon. He increased his pace, the force of his thrusts, and she met him with strong squeezes and encouraging moans. He clamped his fingers on her nipples, rolled his thumbs over the straining tips and let go suddenly, and she was writhing, so close, so very close.

One arm went around her, supporting her, providing better leverage. His mouth kissed greedily, sloppily at hers, and there wasn't enough air for either of them. Thrusting and thrusting, knowing he was seconds away, he moved his kisses down, sucking hard on one breast as he pulled at and pinched the other, and she exploded around him in shouts and sighs. Hearing her, feeling her let go, he followed her immediately, arching his back, shuddering into her, hearing the blood roar in his ears.

Molly listened to the rain continue its gentle patter outside, the smell of wet earth coming in through the still open French doors.

They lazily recovered on the bed, trading sweet kisses, lying down and facing each other with the coverlet pulled over their entangled bodies.

She snuggled into the arms of warm, naked John Watson and sighed.

"Happy?" he asked, and she could hear him smiling around the word.

"Yes," she said against his chest. "Sometimes something . . . physical . . . it just reminds me of what's important, you know?"

He nodded. "So what's important?"

"I'm alive. You're alive." She looked up at him, catching his deep blue eyes. She telegraphed her thought.

Sherlock's alive.

He swallowed. Pursed his lips and nodded once. Message received.

"And," she continued, "you've finally stopped being so grateful."

He knit his brow. "I-what? Why would you be happy that I'm less grateful? Which I don't think I am, by the way."

"Well, maybe not less grateful, but less, I dunno." She paused. "It's more that you're not telling me all the time, with words, or that look on your face-no, don't argue, you have a Gratitude Face-or being careful with me."

He smiled. "Yeah, I'm ready to abandon careful with you," he said, moving in to kiss and nip at her neck, and she wriggled and squeaked, her skin ticklish and oversensitive now.

He relented, leaning back a little to meet her eyes again. Emotion flowed over his features; not gratitude, this time, something better, something like regard. "I-" He faltered.

But she knew. She knew where his thoughts were going.

"I think there are many, many kinds of love," she began, and this time it only surprised him a little that she seemed to be reading his mind. "You and I . . . we're figuring out what our kind is going to be, you know? I mean, I love my big sister, I love Sherlock, I love my cat-"

And now John was really wondering where this particular Molly ramble was going.

"-and they are different, different kinds of love, but they're all important; they're all a part of me-"

He nodded a little. She was on a roll now, and he didn't want to break her train of thought.

"-love, all its layers, it's not simple, it's never simple, but it can be true, even if it's complicated and messy."

She looked at him with urgency in her eyes.

"There's no box to put us, you and me, in."

He nodded again.

"There's no box to put you and Sherlock in."

He didn't quite nod this time, but Molly pressed on.

"-but it's all connected; we're all connected, like, there's no me without you, but there's no you without Sherlock, and-"

She took a breath and noticed the kindly befuddlement on his face.

"Alright." She closed her eyes, and then pushed at his right shoulder until he rolled onto his back, and she arranged herself so he could see her face. "It's like this."

"Imagine three points," she began. "And since you have three points handy here, we'll just use you," she said, indicating his torso.

"You're really into making things physical, aren't you?" he teased.

"Hush. This is important," she answered.

John tried to look very serious.

"You," she said, touching her index finger to his right nipple. "Me," she continued, touching the other, and he let out a little laugh, because, really, it was a little funny, and she wasn't the only one who was ticklish.

"Sherlock," she said, dipping a finger into his navel.

Well, John had to giggle at that. "I suspect Sherlock would have objected to being a belly button."

"Too bad," Molly replied. "Now, pay attention."

"Yes, ma'am," John answered obediently, and Molly's breath caught and her eyes widened a little. _Oh_. Interesting.

She shook her head to reset herself. "So. We're not a triangle."

"No," he said, though he still wasn't sure what she was getting at.

"We're a triquetra."

"Yes. Wait. We're a what?"

"It's Latin, 'three corners'; you know Celtic knots?" she asked.

"Sure," John said slowly, trying to tie together Latin, Celtic knotwork, and the three of them and failing.

"The trinity knot. Like this," she said, placing her finger at his right nipple. "You can't go from one of us to the other without encountering the third person along the way."

She traced a curved path down across his chest to his navel and then back up as she described the path.

"See? You to Sherlock to me to you . . . and back around. No matter where you begin from, we're all tangled up."

"Like a Celtic knot," John said, feeling a warmth and tightness in his chest. She was peeling him open with all this wisdom and he wasn't ready.

"Yes. Seemingly impossible to follow at first glance, but if you follow the line, it's clear. Inclusive." And then her eyes softened, watching him understand. "Beautiful," she said.

And John felt the path she had traced burning on his skin. As he pulled her down for a kiss, pressing their bodies together, he pictured her drawing on his body, with ink, with henna, with fire, drawing swirls and knots and twists that always came back around, back to him, back to her, back to Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

_Okay, this puppy's going to be 8 chapters total; I thought this would be the last chapter, but it got very long! Rest assured, chapter 8 is in draft form and coming along soon. :) -ss_

Getting to their next destination had been arduous. Their trek had been full of the usual joys of worldwide travel. A long, crowded flight from Florence to Mexico City, a ridiculously long layover, and then a frankly terrifying ride on a commuter plane to Cozumel. The shuttle bus to the hotel was alright, but then there was no record of their reservations.

"Again, Señor, I apologize," the concierge said in his generically respectful tone, "but there are no rooms in Cozumel for this week."

John frowned. "How is it possible that an entire island is full up?" he wondered aloud. He snuck a glance at Molly, who sat in the lobby amongst all their luggage, epitomizing the word 'bedraggled.'

"Unfortunately, it is true. However, we have found accommodation for you on the mainland, near the city of Tulum. It is very private, very beautiful-"

John fumed. How could Sherlock find them if they weren't where they were supposed to be?

"-and I have asked Juan Pedro to escort you and the señorita there himself," the concierge finished.

Mouth open to object, John turned to look in the direction the concierge had indicated. Near the registration desk was a stocky and dark-skinned older man, standing up straight and looking right at him. The man removed his cap, holding it in his hand, and nodded once at John.

Gladstone.

At first it seemed Mycroft's plan B was to send them into the middle of the Mexican jungle, as Juan Pedro drove them south from the marina into the Sian Ka'an Biosphere Preserve. At some point they exited the coastal highway and now he was turning their car down an almost impossible-to-discern dirt road.

In the back seat, Molly looked pointedly at John, arms crossed, head cocked.

"I'm sure Juan Pedro knows what he's doing," John offered.

"I see a pattern, is all," she said.

And he smiled, remembering their previous seaside excursion near Brighton.

But then the jungle parted, and the quiet, smiling man was depositing them at their very private cabana on a very private beach.

Molly felt like she was stepping inside a living postcard.

The cabana was simple, a rectangle with big windows, a front porch, and a thatched roof. John helped Juan Pedro haul the luggage inside and Molly followed. It was small, one main room with a kitchen alcove and a separate bathroom, one enormous bedroom, and a cozy sitting area. It was full of sunlight and air, with splashes of bright white linens and tropical plants throughout. Molly stood by the smooth, snowy bed and lifted her eyes, gazing out the picture window. Nothing but sand, sea, and sky, almost ludicrous in their perfection.

John stood in the compact kitchen with the older man. Having already established that neither John nor Molly spoke more than three thimblefuls of Spanish, Juan Pedro began explaining in his passable, heavily accented English. "The maid comes Wednesdays and Saturdays," he said.

John nodded.

"In the mornings, ten o'clock." He then pointed to the cupboards and opened the fridge, which was fully stocked.

"She will bring more food then, too."

John thought they'd have a hard time eating half of it before then. Juan Pedro closed the fridge and handed a key to John, who took it, but held it in his hand a moment, thinking.

"And, is the cabana," John started, hoping his message would get across. "Is it clean?"

"Sí, Señor. That's why El Jefe moved you here."

"El Jefe?"

"The boss. Señor Mycroft."

Hope crept into John's chest; he tried to fight it, but its fingers curled possessively around his heart and squeezed. _Here_. It'll happen here.

He wanted to hug Juan Pedro. Hell, he wanted to hug Señor Mycroft.

After 24 hours in paradise, John was still hopeful, but anxious, so anxious.

After 36 hours, John dreamt of the desert, and soft black curls blowing away into the wind, and then Molly was singing "Here Comes Your Man" and it was helping.

After 48 hours, John hated sand. He hated palm trees, and soft, warm breezes, and the fucking turquoise ocean. He hated Sherlock. But not really.

After 52 hours, John wandered out of the cabana, carrying an enormous bowl of tropical fruit. Molly, lounging on the porch, looked up from her novel but said nothing.

John continued to the edge of the lazy waves and set the bowl down, grabbing limes as he stood up again. If he'd had his gun, he would have used the fruit for target practice. For now, he took one lime at time and with fluid, full-body movements, hurled them into the afternoon sea. He had just begun to wonder if the mangoes would float when he heard the parrots squawk, and turned to watch them exult from the trees at the edge of the jungle only ten meters away, and then, John saw someone emerging onto the sand.

The fingers round his heart clutched so tightly, he felt his heart stop, his breath hitch.

His hair was still dark, but very short, and he had maybe a fortnight's worth of facial hair going. He squinted in the relentless afternoon sun as he took a few slow steps towards John. The short -sleeved button down shirt and cargo shorts revealed his tanned but too-thin physique.

John froze.

Sherlock hesitated.

John's heart continued not beating, and Sherlock began to come closer, his eyes looking down, away, flicking to the deathgrip John had on a mango in his right hand. John's eyes were locked on Sherlock's face, had been the whole time.

He was close enough now that John could see the freckles on his cheeks.

Sherlock finally lifted his gaze, and John saw that Sherlock had lost his courage. He may have walked over to John like a dog with his tail between his legs, but now he straightened up, schooled his face, was on the verge of saying something nonchalant or flippant. Sherlock parted his lips to speak.

"Anything less than an abject, utter, _complete_ apology and you'll regret it," John threatened, and though his voice was mostly calm, his body was as rigid as a tiger ready to pounce.

Sherlock frowned. "Now you'll think I'm apologizing just because you threatened me," he reasoned, his voice sounding exactly the same, exactly, and John, for a moment, forgot that he was angry.

But only for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Try anyway," he ordered.

Sherlock fought his urge to rebel and said, "I am sorry."

"Not good enough," John said immediately.

Sherlock cocked his head. "I am very sorry?" he offered.

"Not nearly good enough," John answered, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

"I was trying to protect you," Sherlock stated.

"That's an excuse. That's not an apology," John explained, still gripping the mango rather fiercely and holding Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock lowered his brows. "You said 'friends protect people'; that's what I did."

"You don't believe that. You never listen to me. You said _'alone_ protects me'; and _that's_ what you did!" John answered, losing control over his voice.

And Sherlock sighed, the sigh he used when John didn't understand something, the sigh he used when he was frustrated and overwhelmed. His hands pushed through his short hair and then came up pleadingly in front of John.

"Alone _did_ protect me; it protected _you_! _And_ Lestrade, _and_ Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock defended, raising his voice.

"Protect me from what? From _what_!" John demanded.

"From being dead!" he shot back.

John took a breath. Made sure Sherlock was looking at him. "Death is not the worst thing that can happen to someone," he countered.

Sherlock had enough awareness to look ashamed.

"And the _why_ of it-"

"Oh, come on, John!" Sherlock was openly skeptical. "You honestly believe you could have feigned grief so well that everyone would believe me dead?"

John stilled. "I could do anything to keep you safe."

And it was Sherlock's turn to feel his heart stop.

"I would do anything to protect you."

And Sherlock's shoulders sagged.

"If you'd fucking _let_ me," John growled.

Sherlock looked down and away.

"And you were never alone. You aren't alone."

And Sherlock lifted his head, but wouldn't look directly at him. "Yes, I am," he answered automatically, dismissively.

John tried to be patient, but the mango was quickly becoming an inedible, pulpy mass as he clenched his hand reflexively.

"No, you're not," he said, managing to control his voice.

Sherlock, annoyed, used his 'speak slowly so the idiot will understand' tone. "Yes. I. Am."

And John simply couldn't bother being careful anymore.

The words exploded out of him like a grenade.

"No, you're NOT!"

He tossed the stupid mango, took one large step forward into Sherlock's personal space, and shoved his hand against Sherlock's chest.

"YOU. ARE. NOT. ALONE!" John punctuated each word with a shove, and Sherlock was stumbling backwards in the soft sand.

John continued walking forward, forcing Sherlock to retreat. "There are people who would have helped you!"

It was not possible to stop the tears at this point, nor the way his voice was rising in pitch and volume. "People who cared about you, people who loved you!" And because that didn't seem quite right, not quite enough-

"_I_ loved you!" John said, his voice finally cracking.

Sherlock stopped moving.

John stopped breathing.

Shit. _Shit_.

Fuck it.

"I love you."

Sherlock's face, so skilled at hiding emotion, seemed at war with itself, and after a moment, his features simply crumpled inward, brow scrunching down, mouth in a tight line, and then his knees seemed to fail him, and John watched in shock as Sherlock Holmes fell into a heap on the sand.

John was on his knees in an instant.

"Sherlock?" he asked softly, touching his friend's shoulder.

And Sherlock simply reached for him, clutching John's arms, clumsily pulling them together. He buried his face in John's shoulder, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, who, beyond all expectations, appeared to be sobbing.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chanted against John's shirt, his wrecked voice croaking out apology after apology.

Molly, from her vantage point on the porch, wiped away her own tears and sighed.

"I told you," she said softly. "Being idiots. Hugging. And crying."

She sniffled and then turned to go back inside to give the idiots their privacy.

Molly lay on the bed, letting her relief fill her eyes with tears, not fighting them in the least.

Finally.

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only fifteen minutes, she heard noises in the sitting room. A muffled argument. A thump followed by a groan.

She'd been hoping John wasn't actually going to throttle Sherlock, but perhaps that had been too high of an expectation.

She closed her eyes and rubbed them with the heels of her hands, then stood and tiptoed out into the sitting room.

She walked around the edge of the sofa to find Sherlock supine and stretched out across it, his head against one armrest and his toes almost touching the other, and John laid on top of him, arms around Sherlock's waist as though he had just tackled him and fully intended to keep him trapped there forever.

Sherlock looked up at her. John's face was turned away from her, buried in Sherlock's chest.

She knelt by the sofa. She looked at John and then back at Sherlock's open, guileless expression.

"So . . ." she trailed off, with no plan or intent.

"John . . . " he began softly, almost whispering. "Expressed . . . an array of emotions," he continued.

Molly nodded.

"And then . . ." Sherlock tilted his chin towards John's prone form. ". . . collapsed."

"Yes. I heard."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted.

"Oh, not the expressing of emotions bit. Just the tackling," Molly reassured him softly.

"You don't have to whisper," John mumbled. "I'm not asleep."

"Are you going to let me up now?" Sherlock asked.

"No."

"But-"

"No."

Sherlock sighed, but also might have adjusted his left arm a bit more comfortably along John's back.

Molly smiled at Sherlock, but her eyes were tearing up again, and she reached a hand up to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"No-" he protested, but she had to get it out.

"I'm sorry I didn't keep your secret; I know I put us all in danger," she said in a rush.

John turned his head now to look at her. He wanted to reassure her; but he wanted to know what Sherlock would say to her more.

"Molly. I-I put you in an impossible situation. It is I who should be sorry," Sherlock declared, as graciously as he could while John's arms tightened around him.

Molly let out a little laugh of relief. "I'm. I'm going to hug you now," she warned him.

"I don't see how," Sherlock answered, looking around himself to indicate the small amount of available body for her to hug, taken up as it was by an understandably emotional ex-army doctor.

She threw herself upon him anyway, one arm sliding around his neck, one arm sliding around John, and she squeezed tightly.

John loosened his grip around Sherlock to reach his left arm around her shoulders, and felt Sherlock's right arm come around to do the same.

Mycroft had given them the gift of time, a whole 24 hours before Sherlock had to move on to the next part of his plan.

After the group hug on the sofa, John decided the agenda would consist completely of emptying as many concrete answers out of Sherlock as he could while simultaneously filling him up with as many calories as possible.

They sat at the square, heavy oak table in the kitchen area. John glared at Sherlock until he started in on his plate of carne asada, beans, and rice. John pushed a plate of sliced avocado towards him to boot, and though Sherlock rolled his eyes, he served himself a few slices, and John relaxed a fraction.

Molly brought three opened beers to the table and set one in front of each of them.

"Ta," John said, and without thinking simply leaned towards her for a kiss, which she gave him before settling into her seat.

"So, this Sebastian Moran," Molly began, turning to Sherlock. "He's the last link to Jim?"

Sherlock paused a moment before answering. "Yes. And I'm fairly certain he has determined I'm alive, or at least suspects."

"Well, you have been killing off or imprisoning everyone he knows," John pointed out.

"Yes, well, now it's going to be much harder to find him. We've just been chasing each other halfway around the world."

"Why do they care? Why would they all have been loyal to J-" She revised. "To Moriarty once he was dead?" Molly asked.

"At first, no one believed Moriarty _was_ dead. It wasn't until Moran had proof of his death and officially took over the organization that belief in Moriarty's invincibility crumbled. But Moran does not inspire the same admiration in others that he felt for Moriarty," Sherlock explained, resting back in his seat.

John looked at him and then pointedly at his plate. Sherlock frowned but sat up straight again, fixing himself another taco.

"So Moran's president of the fan club?" Molly asked.

"It would seem so," Sherlock answered around a mouthful of food. He swallowed. "No one with that kind of loyalty to Moriarty is left. Those who had threats against them have found those threats . . . removed. The mercenaries now know the money is gone, located and seized by Mycroft's people three weeks ago."

"Any leads on Moran?" John asked.

Sherlock frowned. "The man is a ghost."

After dinner, Molly continued, in her completely not subtle way, to try to give them privacy, insisting on doing the dishes despite John's protestations, and making a show of fetching her iPod and putting earphones in.

John and Sherlock moved back to the sitting area with their second bottles of Bohemia, and sat in the two wicker armchairs, facing out towards the ocean as dusk fell over the beach.

John could hear Molly singing softly to herself in the kitchen, and his face answered with a bittersweet smile. He caught Sherlock watching him, trying to deduce why his smile was tinged with sorrow.

John decided to help him out. "She sings to me at night. When I have nightmares," he said.

Sherlock stared back at him, eyes bright, brows drawn just the slightest bit.

He wouldn't ask the question. He already deduced the answer.

John let it be.

"Let me help you," John said. "Let _us_. We can continue this trip, help you along the way, and back home, in London."

Sherlock blinked, finally breaking their gaze.

"And she's . . . amenable?" Sherlock asked, dubious.

"Amen-?" John's chin lifted as he caught Sherlock's implication. "What d'you mean, 'amenable'!" he demanded.

Sherlock continued staring out at the waves. "Nothing, I simply was-"

"No, no. Not nothing," John answered, offended now. "Are you actually implying that I would insinuate myself on her that way?"

Sherlock shot him a withering glare. "Don't be ridiculous, John."

"Or that it's some kind of _hardship_ for her, she's just having to grin and bear it, being with me?"

"Oh, for God's sake."

"Or that-" John stopped suddenly, sitting up straighter. "_Oh_."

Sherlock couldn't help himself. "What?"

"You're upset because she _wants_ to be with me."

"Don't be an idiot."

John rolled right over this as though Sherlock had not spoken. "Because she was head over heels infatuated with you, and now she's with me." John might have been just a little bit smug.

"Patent nonsense," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes dramatically. But John stilled, watching him silently until Sherlock finally met his eyes.

"She loves you," he said in all seriousness.

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was talk about feelings, but he couldn't keep the confusion from his features.

John broke eye contact and turned his head to the kitchen.

"Molly?" he called, loudly enough for her to hear over her music.

She turned and popped her earphones out.

"Yeah?"

"Explain to Sherlock about the knots."

A few minutes later there was a trinity knot drawn on the palm of Sherlock's right hand in ballpoint ink, and he stared at it as it though it was not entirely ridiculous.

"That's. Not inaccurate," he managed.

Molly went to bed first, kissing John goodnight and giving Sherlock a peck on the forehead before retreating to the bedroom.

Sherlock and John sat in the dark, listening to the waves.

After their group hug on the sofa, everything had felt strangely, surreally normal between them, as though they were home in London, being domestic, even bickering with each other. But now, with Molly asleep, with the dark surrounding them, John felt himself crashing back into reality.

Sherlock, alive, yes, but very much in danger.

Their brief respite from tension seemingly over, John hadn't the slightest idea what to think, much less what to say, and he felt the anxiety returning, pricking at the nape of his neck. Sherlock sat deathly still, and John found it easier to turn his eyes to the sea, to the palm fronds ruffling in the night breeze.

"I-" Sherlock began. John looked at him, but he had pursed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut.

John waited.

"You were right," Sherlock said, and John couldn't help his eyes widening. "You could help me. You are entirely convincing as a couple. You _are_ a couple."

And if Sherlock sounded surprised, John chose to ignore it. Any easy banter from earlier in the day seemed inappropriate now somehow. The silence returned and lingered for a while, sitting uneasily between them. Eventually, the wicker creaked as Sherlock shifted in his seat and looked down.

"I did all of this," he began, "the deception, keeping it from you, chasing Moran, all of it, I did it for . . ."

John waited.

Sherlock sighed. Scratched his neck. Wouldn't look at him. Finally, he took a breath and began, "What you, erm, what you said, earlier . . ." He gestured lamely to the beach.

Oh. _That_.

"That was . . ."

John rushed in. "We don't have to talk about it."

Sherlock huffed in relief and his shoulders visibly relaxed. "Oh, thank God."

Waves and wind, ceaseless.

"You should sleep," Sherlock finally said, nearly startling John.

"I don't know if I can," John answered.

Sherlock nodded and didn't say anything else, but John could read what they were both not saying. There were simply too many feelings, too many untidy, pushy words crowding around them, all of which would have to wait.

"Goodnight, then," John said, standing, completely unsure of what to do with his hands.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said without looking at him, and it was all stupid, and male, and inadequate, but John turned anyway and walked into the bedroom. He left the door wide open.

Sherlock thrashed about on the sofa for an hour, trying to find a comfortable position. John heard a sharp thump and a slightly muffled curse. He knit his brows and opened one eye to see Sherlock standing on his side of the bed, frowning.

He noticed Sherlock's fingers clenching.

"Come on, then," he said, and scooted closer to Molly, leaving a pillow and a good chunk of the bed for Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't have to be told twice and somehow folded his lanky self into the bed under the coverlet. John yelped.

"Jesus! Your feet are _freezing_," he complained.

"Shh. You'll wake Molly," Sherlock reasoned.


	8. Chapter 8

_Damn you, ffnet. The "~~~" for between the scenes aren't showing up! Oh well. _

_Endless thanks to BritChick101 (somebodyswatson on AO3) for being a true and constant beta for this baby from start to finish. I would not have done this as well or as quickly if not for her. Thank you to Vertex for self-defense info and roane for fight scene advice which helped immeasurably as I have never been in a fight nor written one before! And, finally, if this entertained you even a little bit, I am so glad, and immensely grateful for every hit and comment. Thank you._

The next morning, as Molly showered, John and Sherlock walked out onto the porch and made their way out to the beach, pausing to face the morning sun over the sea.

The surreal texture to their lives continued from the day before. Just the thought of being on a warm Mexican beach with Sherlock, both of them in shorts and shirtsleeves, it was beyond strange, like seeing polar bears in a jungle.

And soon, he'd have to leave, and John would have to let him.

"Got you something," John said, fishing in his pocket. "At the airport in Mexico City. We were stuck there for hours, and we ended up in the gift shop."

John held it up. It was a calavera on a keychain, a decorative white skull about the size of a large gumball, brightly colored and somewhat frightening. Golden sunflowers with gaping black centers made up the eyes, and radiating, swirling designs in green, turquoise, and purple spread across the cheeks, forehead, and chin. It was a smiling, cheerful memento of death.

Sherlock took it in his hand, inspecting it.

"A bit more festive than Billy," John said, smiling.

Sherlock seemed moved, but the corners of his mouth pulled down.

"I can't keep it," he said softly.

"I know," John said. He had figured as much. Sherlock shed his identity and created a new one for every city.

Sherlock smiled a little and handed it back to John.

"I'll keep it. For you. You can have it back. When you come home," John explained, his voice roughening. He dug his own keys out of his pocket, and fastened the calavera onto the keyring, next to his keys for 221b.

Sherlock reached out for them, and John placed the keys in his hand. He moved his fingers over the little skull, rubbed the pad of his thumb over the key to the flat. Home.

Sherlock looked up to say thank you, and froze. John turned and immediately moved in front of Sherlock.

Molly was coming out of the cabana, slowly, with her hands up. Her lip was bleeding.

Sebastian Moran walked several steps behind her, pointing a gun at her back.

Sherlock had described to them what he knew of Moran's history, his appearance, but John would have known it was Moran anyway. The sense of inevitability surrounded them all.

"Keep walking, Miss Hooper," Moran said calmly. He was about as tall as Sherlock, but with an athlete's build. His blonde hair was graying and cropped short, and his hazel eyes were not nervous or even concerned. In his mind, the game was over.

"That's far enough," he said, and she stopped about ten feet from John and Sherlock, facing them. Moran stood behind her and slightly to the right, the gun a good five feet out of Molly's reach. John scanned her, from her toes up to the hairs on her head. The shoulder seam of her t-shirt was torn, but the lip seemed to be the only visible injury. He could hear Sherlock thinking behind him, the lightening-fast inferences he must be making about Moran. But John knew all he needed to know.

Moran was a professional. He wasn't going to let them within striking distance of that gun. He wasn't going to talk and talk and make them marvel at his brilliant plan. He was there to take Sherlock. And he was fully aware of how effective it would be to use Molly as leverage.

Sweet, nice, kind Molly, who was only in this mess because she wanted to help them. John looked up at her face, into her eyes, fear beginning to enter his features.

Molly winked.

And then her face twisted up, and tears were forming in her eyes.

Right. Okay, thought John. New plan. They had spent some of their precious time on Mycroft's plane discussing exactly what Molly had learned in her self-defense classes, and although John had been impressed, he still had never seen her use any of it. How monumentally stupid of them. They should have been spending their entire time at the cabana practicing. The only upside, and what Molly was clearly banking on, was that Moran seemed to be underestimating her.

Now, Molly was their only chance. As dangerous as it was, they needed to get her closer to the gun.

"Don't hurt her," John said, taking a step towards Molly.

"Don't make me," answered Moran, taking a step of his own towards Molly and holding the gun higher, towards her head, to emphasize the consequences should John or Sherlock try to get closer to her.

Molly, terrorized expression in place, turned to look at Moran, and whimpered as he narrowed his eyes at her.

And so five feet became three.

John felt Sherlock behind him, just a feathery slide of fingers along the small of his back. He found himself praying Sherlock truly did see everything, that he somehow knew John and Molly's plan.

Sherlock moved laterally, stepping out from behind John, and to Moran's left. John moved one step left to shield him, and Moran frowned at them both.

"If you want her dead, by all means, keep moving," he said, inching closer to Molly.

Molly appeared to cower, hunching in on herself and stumbling just a little.

Three feet became two.

"Mr. Holmes. Walk towards me. Slowly."

Sherlock scoffed. Moran turned to glare at him as Sherlock spoke. "Given the extent of your loyalty to-"

The instant Moran's head turned towards Sherlock, Molly took one firm step forward, out and away from the path of the gun, and simultaneously grabbed Moran's wrist with her right hand while pushing the muzzle of the gun up and back with her left hand. She had practiced this so many times in class, and she knew the odds of the gun discharging were very high. Knowing didn't prepare her for what the shot sounded like, how she could feel the force of the bullet as it whizzed past her head, but she continued her motion until Moran's wrist gave out, and the gun dropped out of his hand.

John had rushed right towards Molly and the gun, and Sherlock went left towards Moran.

Moran came around with his uninjured hand and Molly ducked enough that his punch landed across the top of her head rather than at her temple, but it still knocked her down into the sand.

She landed face down with a solid thump, sand in her eyes, her mouth, but she twisted onto her back, facing Moran as he came towards her.

She couldn't hear. She could barely see. She didn't know exactly where John and Sherlock were, though she had a sense of movement all around her.

What she did know was that Moran was looming over her.

With her back against the sand as leverage, she threw out a kick, her foot landing solidly against his groin. He doubled over, and she aimed her foot towards his knee, not hitting it squarely but enough to make him wobble to a half-crouch above her.

And then Sherlock was there, landing his own kick rather viciously to Moran's chin, knocking him over onto his back.

John stood over Moran, the gun a smooth extension of his arm.

Molly scrambled to her feet, swaying only a little bit, and Sherlock placed a steadying arm around her.

Moran, prone and unconscious from Sherlock's kick, was still breathing.

"Do you need him alive?" John said, and they all knew exactly what he was asking.

Sherlock spoke clearly, deliberately. "No. The opposite, in fact."

John put two bullets in Moran. One to the heart. One to the head.

He glanced back to see that Molly and Sherlock were all right, and crouched near the body on the sand, gun still in his right hand.

"Do you reckon he came alone?" John asked as pressed two fingers against Moran's neck.

"Fairly sure," Sherlock answered.

John raised an eyebrow. When was Sherlock less than 100% sure? He continued running his left hand over Moran's body, dipping carefully into pockets, removing weapons as he found them, but it was tricky one-handed.

"Trade," Sherlock ordered, and John nodded. Sherlock was probably dying to see if he could gather any clues, and John needed his gun hand free.

He came up to Molly.

"You okay?" he asked her softly.

"No," she answered immediately. "But I'm not hurt," she clarified.

John's eyes noted her bleeding, swelling lip, the goose egg starting to form on her forehead, the fact that she was avoiding opening her right eye. He slipped into doctor mode effortlessly while still keeping his eyes up, scanning the treeline, the cabana, the beach.

"What's your name?" John asked.

Molly glared at him with her one good eye. "Molly Elizabeth Hooper."

"Where are we?"

"Mexico."

"What day is it?"

"The day we killed Sebastian Moran."

He looked at her. John pressed his lips together, half grin, half grimace. "Yeah."

Sherlock stood, having fully searched Moran's body. "Nothing," he reported.

"Sherlock," John began.

"I know," Sherlock responded, pulling out a phone from his pocket to call his brother.

The flight back to London was only semi-private, as Mycroft and several of his staff members were on the plane with them. After two days of stewing in a Mexico City hotel, waiting for the all-clear, it was a relief to finally be making their way home.

Molly was curled up in a reclining chair, sleeping, and John sat in the seat next to her, stealing glances at her from time to time.

"She's fine," Sherlock said from his seat across from John.

John sighed. "I know." He looked over to Sherlock, who sat with his eyes closed, hands steepled under his now clean-shaven chin. John's eyes softened and he pursed his lips.

"Sherlock."

"Mmm."

"You're not a machine," John said.

Sherlock opened his eyes cautiously. "I know."

John shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "I hate that I said that to you." He looked up again. "I'm sorry for that."

Sherlock's lower lip tightened a fraction before he schooled his features. He closed his eyes again. "Consider it deleted."

John allowed himself a small smile at that, then leaned back in the chair, rubbing at his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

When he lowered his hands, he saw Mycroft standing before them.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in irritation, but John sat up straighter in his seat.

"Well, Sherlock, it appears you were most thorough," Mycroft began, facing his brother.

"Everything sorted, then?" John asked.

Mycroft paused. "It appears this particular danger is now a thing of the past," he reassured them. He turned to John deliberately.

"John. I-" Mycroft Holmes actually faltered, and John's eyes widened up at him. "I owe you an apology, as well as my thanks."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot upwards, but John took mercy on Mycroft and stopped him from going through the agony of elaborating.

"I accept both," John said, and offered his hand, which Mycroft shook quite gratefully. He then cleared his throat gently, and his mask slid back into place.

Great care was taken to break to Mrs. Hudson the news of Sherlock's return as gently as possible. Sherlock argued it wasn't necessary, that despite her hip, Mrs. Hudson was otherwise as healthy as a horse.

"It's not about her health, Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth.

Ultimately, John entered 221A alone. Molly waited with Sherlock and Mycroft in the hall, as the splotchy bruise on her forehead and the fresh scab on her lip made everything appear worse than it actually was.

Sitting with her in her kitchen, John spoke to Mrs. Hudson in quiet sentences, with veiled hints that revealed in half-concealing. When the spark caught in her eyes, the older woman looked up at him, features full of hope, and John nodded at her, and then the door was opening, and really, there was a lot of hugging and crying and carrying on. Sherlock tolerated it quite well and even accepted her offer to bring them up some tea and two kinds of cake.

Which is perhaps why John had not been nearly as careful with Lestrade, simply calling him and leaving a message for him to come to the flat straightaway, that he had good news to tell him in person.

Instead of ringing back, Lestrade appeared at 221 Baker Street twenty minutes later, in the midst of tea and cakes. John rushed downstairs to answer the door.

"Greg!" he said, pulling the older man into a bear hug.

"Well, hello to you too," Greg replied, giving John a somewhat awkward pat on the back. "Must be really good news, then."

John released him and smiled widely. "Go on up," he said, tilting his chin towards the stairs.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock lay propped up on the sofa, a tea towel full of ice cubes pressed against his left eye.

"He didn't have to hit quite so hard," Sherlock complained, lifting the ice pack off his face.

"Five more minutes," John scolded as he came in from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, setting one on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock obeyed, placing the ice back on his face, and sat up on the sofa.

"To be fair, you did give him quite a shock. And then he saw the state of Molly's face," John pointed out, settling onto the sofa next to him. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft had managed to take the reeling detective inspector downstairs to 221a, leaving John to tend to Sherlock, who'd fallen flat on his arse from Greg's punch.

"And now Molly and _Mycroft_ are 'explaining' everything," Sherlock grumbled.

John smiled. "And _that's_ the part that bothers, you, isn't it? That you don't get to tell the story."

Sherlock shrugged and reached for his tea.

"Thank you," he said, sipping at it.

John openly stared at him, knitting his brows in puzzlement.

"What?" asked Sherlock uncertainly.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard you thanking me for something."

"You make excellent tea," Sherlock defended.

"I've made you countless cups of tea. This is the first time you've thanked me."

"Well," Sherlock began. "You know that normally I despise these niceties, but it seems that, in this case, I'm actually grateful."

John waited. Sherlock looked at him with one bright, shining eye.

"What's the proper way to thank someone for . . ."

John waited.

Sherlock looked away. "For . . ." he whispered.

John waited.

Sherlock lowered the ice pack and looked up at his friend.

"For countless cups of tea?" he asked, with a small, sad smile.

John mirrored his smile back at him.

It's just before dawn. He settles into his chair. Though it's still fairly dark, he sees one feline eye slide open to regard him suspiciously from Sherlock's chair. The cat makes a decision and continues his nap.

John watches Sherlock sleeping on the sofa, the sofa where he had first kissed Molly. His long limbs tangle around the grey blanket that usually adorns John's chair, the one he'd used to bundle Molly up while he fetched her breakfast.

John is thinking about knots, and kinds of love, and wondering if he is too old to get a tattoo for such an impulsive, sentimental reason.

Because John feels it on his skin, more than anything. The twisty lines of connection, swirling, unending. Her words echoing and etching.

You to Sherlock to me and back.

There's no box to put us in.

Love is never simple but that doesn't mean it's not true.

Everything's complicated and straight answers don't exist; Mycroft's reassurances that they are out of any danger feel too good to trust. Sherlock has gone back to not saying thank you and not apologizing for anything alarmingly quickly, but then John catches him studying the little calavera, which Sherlock had placed on his keychain their first day back at 221b, and John wonders if Sherlock is just trying to be normal. To get things back to normal. For John.

Molly is healing quickly, but doesn't seem ready to sleep alone at her own flat, and John lets her do whatever she wants, will give her whatever she wants, because she has earned it, she deserves it, and Sherlock, surprisingly, seems to agree.

And what Molly seems to want is to work, to come home to 221b and cook delicious things and drink a glass of wine, to snuggle on the sofa with one or two men and her cat, and then go to sleep upstairs, with John following later, curving himself around her.

This morning he leaves her in the bed, sleeping and warm, because he needs to see Sherlock sometimes. Needs to be sure of him. Is considering implanting a microchip in him so he can always, always find him. He thinks Sherlock might let him if John agrees to get one too. And Molly. It could be like their version of tattoos.

It occurs to him that this is a strange kind of love, one that Ella would probably (definitely) disapprove of. Too much dependency, too many unknowns, too many ways for it to go horribly wrong.

Whether it's a sustainable love is too complicated to answer and now the sun is coming up and he hears Molly stirring and it doesn't matter anyway, really.

Simple or not, it's love all the same.

John gets up from his chair.

She'll want breakfast.

Sherlock needs to eat more.

And John needs kisses, and bacon, and a case, and if he's lucky today, he'll get all three.


	9. Deleted scene

_I wrote this scene originally to be at the beginning of Chapter 8, but decided it didn't really fit the flow/tone in the end. However, I had all three of them in a bed together, so... here you go._

John awoke first. He lay on his back, Sherlock and Molly on their sides and facing him, unconsciously mirroring each other in their sleep.

He could have taken a moment to worry about what it all meant for the three of them to be in the same bed, but the more pressing matter of having to pee retained his full focus. He decided on scooting slowly down the center of the bed, taking the coverlet halfway down the bed with him, and then padding over to the bathroom.

"Hmph," Molly complained, fighting wakefulness. Eyes still firmly shut against the day, she reached out for John. One hand found a shirt collar, and she pulled, snuggling in. Her left hand slid down, from shoulder blades to firm back to the curve of arse and settled there.

An arm came around her waist in response.

"Good morning," came a puzzled, dark chocolate voice.

Molly's knew what she'd done before she even dared to open her eyes. Bemused aquamarine eyes glittered back at her.

She blinked. She noticed Sherlock's gaze move up behind her and, _of course_. Without moving, she knew John was standing right there, at the side of the bed.

"Oh, nice. I go to the loo and the two of you start getting cozy, eh?"

And she could tell from John's voice that he wasn't mad, or even bothered; he simply climbed back into the bed and settled in behind her.

"I swear to God I thought he was you," Molly explained, face red but smiling as she shook her head a bit.

Sherlock was observing John so hard he could hear it.

John giggled and Sherlock allowed himself a smile.

"You gonna move that hand?" John asked.

"I tried," Molly pleaded, "It's quite disobedient."

John sputtered out a laugh and snuggled in closer, his left arm sliding around her waist next to Sherlock's arm, his lips finding the back of her neck and ghosting little kisses there as he laughed softly. Sherlock didn't move, his gaze traveling from Molly's face to John's.

And John got an idea and couldn't help himself. Perhaps he wanted to give Molly a gift, of sorts. Perhaps he just liked to see her blush. Having learned her body and its reactions, John continued his soft kisses along her neck, and Molly let out a surprised sigh. Sherlock's eyes locked on hers.

"John Watson, you are evil," she managed, staring rather helplessly into Sherlock's eyes as John smiled against her nape, and then he began placing proper kisses there, and she was close to lost.

Sherlock quirked his lip a bit and his eyes flicked to John's, and John was fairly sure Molly wouldn't mind so he darted his eyes to the side of Molly's throat, the spot above the hollow of her collarbone that never failed to drive her mad, and then looked up at Sherlock to ensure he got the hint.

John saw the subtle smile pull at the corners of his lips, and then Sherlock focused his laser gaze on Molly's eyes. John pressed against her from behind, tightening his grip around her waist. She could feel Sherlock's hand between her back and John's belly, she could feel Sherlock's breath on her face, John's kisses at the back of her neck. And then, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to her throat.

Molly's eyes flew wide open in shock, but almost instantly fluttered shut again because Sherlock, Sherlock!, was, quite gently, sucking on her skin, nuzzling along her jaw with his stubbly beard, breathing against her neck, and suddenly there wasn't enough air between them all for her to catch her breath.

She exhaled in gasps, and her blood was a river of lava, rushing to prepare her body to follow through on the stirrings inside her. Her errant left hand clenched on Sherlock quite of its own accord. His kiss on her throat intensified, and she sank and countersank, her backside pressing further into John, her chest compelled to lift and press against Sherlock's.

And then John moved his hand, softly, but deliberately, in circles on her belly, inching lower.

Her eyes opened.

"Okay, no," she said, and nervous laughter was threatening to spill out of her. John's hand retreated.

"Too much, love?" John asked with a truly impish grin, and Sherlock stopped kissing her neck and was smiling at her.

She narrowed her eyes at both of them and wriggled like a fish between them until they both backed off a little.

"Honestly, you are truly, truly evil," she declared with a huff as she turned herself around, facing them and kneeling up between them, pushing her hair away from her face.

"No, not really," John protested. She narrowed her eyes at him, and grabbed a pillow.

"Yes, really," she confirmed, getting in a good three whacks before he managed to snatch the pillow from her and toss it to the floor. She smacked him on the back of the head for good measure with her hand.

Sherlock laughed outright at that, enjoying seeing John bring his arms up and cower from a five foot four woman, but that got Molly's attention.

"You, too," she admonished, batting at Sherlock a bit as well until he also felt the need to protect his face.

"Hmph," she grumbled, getting up off the bed, leaving them both chuckling like boys who'd pulled a prank on the teacher.

"Devil's spawn, the both of you," she stated. John looked at her, chagrined enough to pause his giggling, and she couldn't help giving him a hint that she wasn't actually all that angry.

"Alright. I'm going to take a cold shower, now, thanks," she said, and she walked off towards the bathroom defiantly. She turned to look as she reached the door, satisfied to see them both looking back at her. She tilted her head down and gave them a smile before disappearing inside.


End file.
